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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26811283">road trip mix, 1997</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/knifecharm/pseuds/knifecharm'>knifecharm</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>i'll be right behind you [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Dead by Daylight (Video Game)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Attempted Murder, Drama, Emotional Manipulation, Explicit Sexual Content, Flashbacks, Horror, Hybristophilia, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Kidnapping, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Murder, Past Relationship(s), Roadtrip, Serial Killers, Slow Burn, Thriller, Time Period: 90s, Unhealthy Relationships, Unreliable Narrator</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 09:01:20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>50,984</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26811283</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/knifecharm/pseuds/knifecharm</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Clive stopped receiving fostering cheques the day his ward turned twenty. It's time for Frank to hit the road.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Danny "Jed Olsen" Johnson | The Ghost Face/Frank Morrison, Minor or Background Relationship(s)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>i'll be right behind you [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2218830</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>61</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>247</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Stargazer, You Cry In Blue</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/junkertown/gifts">junkertown</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>i'm going to try to commit to updating this at least twice a week. thank you so much if you've read so far. comments/kudos are encouraged and highly appreciated. follow me on twitter (@90skilled) OR my tumblr (voluspas) for updates/just to chat if you'd like :)</p><p>https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5JorrfB0ETXf5f1sCglz6x?si=Nj9CKHJfRFyRtj6I5Ubxsw companion playlist!</p><p>https://www.instagram.com/p/CNmwzCcFfEi/?igshid=eojogkglkqx0 lovely art 💞</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><em>178 Hillgrove Place, third floor, apartment number 308. </em>Frank repeats the address in his mind like a mantra, internal voice overlaying the static-laden sounds coming from his Walkman.</p><p>More accurately, it resembles heavy bass fading into veiled undertones. The lyrics bleed into the gray ether, smokey and thick with faint July heat. The soft drizzle of rain that’d died down from a heavy storm a few hours earlier when he’d been kicked from his latest hitched ride spits at his hood and the dark leather of his jacket. It doesn’t bug him much, especially since this road doesn’t have heavy enough traffic to send further jets of water toward his threadbare socks and worn-out sneakers. What bothers him is that he’d been just an hour’s drive outside of the <em>Welcome to Calgary </em>sign if the map that currently sits heavy in his duffle bag is right. Unfortunately, the asshole he’d flagged down at the outskirts of Drumheller decided he’d driven far enough.</p><p><em>Who the hell willingly lives in Drumheller?</em> He thinks. His inner voice isn't loud enough to hear over the crackling in his ears. If he were back at Clive’s, he would’ve stolen the batteries from the drunkard’s remote and swapped them out before he’d even woken up from his stupor. Now that he can’t leech off of that small security, he needs to find a hardware store to lift some double A’s from before the Walkman dies on him for real. </p><p><em>Who the hell willingly lives in Ormond? </em>Another voice chips in. This one isn’t his. It sounds distinctly feminine, satiny yet rough toward the ending lilt- the moment he realizes whose voice is in his head is the moment he cuts off that train of thought (albeit, with one last snarky remark directed entirely toward the disembodied voice of Julie Kostenko; <em>It wasn’t exactly </em>willing, <em>was it? </em>).</p><p>He steps into a puddle. He barely notices it in his half-drenched state, but the water shoots up to splash through one of the many holes in his jeans, each droplet a fishhook digging into his skin.</p><p>He’d taken them pre-ripped off of a department store shelf two springs ago, showing off to a horrified Susie and an impressed Joey while Julie hung off his arm like a velcro monkey. Now they’re thoroughly destroyed enough to need another stitch around the hems. </p><p>Frank pauses as the audio fades out again in tandem with the storm picking back up. Fat drops splatter against his nose. A single lock of limp blonde falls into his vision. His stomach grumbles, long and loud, blaring through the music. And, with a grunt and a growl pointed toward the sky, he wraps his jacket tighter around his frame, white-knuckles the strap of his duffle bag, and trudges forward with just enough willpower to make it seven feet before a pair of white headlights subsume the road ahead. </p><p>They’re speeding in from far behind, close enough to break through the night. It’s the first car he’s seen since the man from Drumheller, and he wants out of this damn wet.</p><p>He wonders, briefly, why he hadn’t just kicked the fucker out of his pickup earlier at knifepoint and driven the rest of the way down to Calgary, bitterness clouding over his earlier judgement like a muslin cloth. <em>Because you’re here to be better, </em>a quiet tone butts in, lisping and high. Susie Bellemare’s voice used to be annoying before he grew to find it endearing, like a little dog’s shrill barks. <em>No, </em>he replies, forcing a scowl inwards. <em>I just don’t want to get caught yet. </em></p><p>Frank turns around and extends his free arm, back facing his intended direction and thumb up toward the firmament. The road is flanked on either side by thick evergreens which look ebon in the vignetted night, and overtop the trees where the Rocky Mountain peaks are usually visible (or, at least, were visible earlier, before the sky grew dark and the pines shot by in blurs of verdant) is only black. The headlights are bright, cutting through the storm like dual white blades. </p><p>Ten seconds later, the car slows. His brows furrow. He’s surprised that his first attempt managed to catch a bite. Usually, it takes a little longer than that. With a shrug, he drops his arm and shoulders his bag, taking a few squishy steps toward the silver Toyota that’s pulling up to the gravel. The window draws down, too slowly for his taste, with a mechanical whir.</p><p>“Hey!” Frank throws his voice so that it’s audible over the din of droplets pounding against metal. </p><p>“Hi. Need a ride?” The stranger says. His face is obscured by shadow, but Frank’s eyes can make out the silhouette of a man no younger than twenty and no older than thirty-five. Quite the gap, but it’s hard to discern anything, especially when the rain is gluing itself to his lashes and blocking out more than the gloom is. Franks scoffs.</p><p>“Nah man, I’m looking to see if you wanted to buy a Bible.” The man doesn’t reply. His face does falter slightly though, which makes him reconsider his less-than-friendly introduction thus far. The rain gets louder. “You on your way into the city?” A nod and Frank can see the outline of a friendly grin stretch out on cut, scruffy features.</p><p>“Sure. Get on in.” Frank offers the other a half-smile, before swinging the door open and throwing his duffle bag into the back. It bounces before falling onto the floor, which he notes is incredibly clean- the truck he’d been in last had been riddled with takeout boxes, candy wrappers and empty beer bottles. Hell, it’s cleaner than Joey’s old hunk of metal- the guy treated it as if it were a newborn. Even though Frank’s Legion practically lived out of it, the instant they were told to clear out of his Chevy, they collectively had to ensure they didn’t leave a stain on the faux-leather seats.</p><p>
  <em>“You leave a single mud print in my ride and you’re walking back to town,” Joey Fraser grumbles toward the back seat, one hand on the wheel and his other drumming across the dashboard.  </em>
</p><p>Frank shakes his head, pushing his thoughts away once again. He’s been struggling against a tide of embittered nostalgia as soon as he took his first step out of Ormond, his psyche clearly intent on either pissing him off or making him feel inexplicably guilty.</p><p>He hops into the car, not bothering to fasten his belt, before closing the door. His clothes feel heavy- wet fabric moulds itself into the plastic of his seat. However, he’s instantly sated by the fact that he can actually hear his music again, readying up into a collective hum- <em>She dance around my cable car.</em> In a rare display of good manners, he drops the headphones around his neck. For the first time in hours, his head is clear of static, and his legs feel like jello as opposed to aching nubs. He looks at the digital clock on the radio. <em>11:36. </em>When he gets to the complex, he’ll probably have to find a storefront to squat in until morning.</p><p>“You know how to get to the Eaton Centre?” He asks as they peel out. The man is facing the road, so Frank can only see his side profile now, bathed in slightly less shadow than before. He’s pale, dark-haired, and fairly benign. Not strikingly attractive, but not a sore sight either; he’s a far cry from the redneck weirdos Frank’s been riding with for the past couple of days. A wrinkled white button-down shirt and a pair of cufflinks don’t exactly scream <em>Calgary Cowboys. </em>Past that, he can’t bring himself to care.</p><p>“Mhm. I’m there all the time.” The man replies, quieter now than he’d been earlier. His smile is gone, replaced with something far more placid- must be focusing on the road. His windshield wipers swing back and forth, sending blurry streaks toward the passenger side.</p><p>“I, uh, need to get a few blocks from there- Hillgrove Place.” <em>178 Hillgrove Place, third floor, apartment number- </em>... The man doesn’t nod in acknowledgement, nor does he do much of anything, but Frank takes that as silent agreement. With a shrug, he puts his headphones back on and settles himself into his own little corner, side of his pressed up against the window and arms crossed tight across his chest. He should ask for a name, but he hadn’t bothered getting one from the others. They’d all offered first. Too friendly. <em>At least friendly beats walking. </em></p><p>He feels a tiny tug at his eyelids, expels a stifled yawn, and tries to blink away the urge to sleep. </p><p>Only, his eyes don’t open after they close.</p>
<hr/><p>He tells himself that he didn’t doze off. It only felt like fifteen minutes in his head, but he was cold, hungry- even now his stomach lurches. The last thing he ate was a bag of chips he’d scooped at a tacky dinosaur-themed convenience store, and before then there wasn’t much to speak of either. <em>Travelling on a budget, </em>he muses. When he opens his eyes now, the streaks of dark verdant have melted into pitch black, and when he stirs enough to take a peek he’s already turned around in his seat and snarling at the side of an unperturbed head. </p><p><em>1:45. </em>Frank blinks.</p><p>“What the fuck?” The stranger’s profile is still as a statue. He doesn’t even jump when Frank pulls his knife out of his pocket and flips it open to a point. It’s half on instinct and half because, holy shit, he got into a car with a fucking stranger and this is exactly what <em>shouldn’t </em>be happening. </p><p>He can hold his own, obviously- <em>he’d </em>been the one stealing handbags and picking pockets, threatening store clerks at knifepoint and beating the shit out of anyone who might have half the nerve to snitch <em>(killed a faceless man and hid his busted-blue body in the snow, set the whole town aflame and laughed at the sparks until it all died down and his Legion were left fractured in the embers). </em>But the man’s calmness doesn’t quell his unease. Frank holds the blade tight in his hand and draws it upward, toward his neck, a good few inches away but visibly a threat. “You a vegetable or something? I said <em>Hillgrove, </em>not the damn border.” Still no response. Frank’s nose curls up with ire and his thick brows lower. His vision flashes red.</p><p>He’s done playing nice. He’s spent the last week trudging down dirt roads and relying on the ‘kindness of strangers’- kind, right until he proved to be too inconvenient. Story of his damn life. He grabs the man by the collar of his button-down and presses the side of his knife into the intersection of his chin and his neck. <em>Doesn’t count if it’s self-defence, </em>he thinks. Only silence responds. He doesn’t know if he should be grateful for that.</p><p>“Pull the fucking car over or I’ll cut your damn throat out!” He detects no tense note of pause or even a tremor in the man’s breath. His eyes don't widen. He isn't afraid. That’s the last thing Frank notes before a blow strikes him straight in his head's side, and the static in his ears becomes an arrant ring.</p><p>Everything’s slow after that, like he’s watching it all happen from the bottom of a bathtub- the man’s arm, which moved far faster than Frank’s could’ve, retracts back from sucker punching him in the ear and toward the back of his head. His hood had slipped down at some point, leaving his blonde locks as complimentary purchase which the man promptly takes advantage of. Before he can react, the stranger grabs him by his hair and smashes his head directly into the dashboard with crushing finality.</p><p>His Walkman is dead, the batteries drained far past their prime. That or his ear is too busted from the punch to hear it wholly fade. The world around him is promptly blacked out, adumbration tugging at his senses as if he’s going from one song to the next.</p><p>It’s the summer of 1997, and Frank Morrison’s life has nowhere left to go but straight downhill.</p>
<hr/><p>His next awakening is far less agreeable- his senses come back to him faster and with a less muted preamble. The lead weight is still there, but it’s lighter, fog replaced with a dull and ubiquitous twinge. </p><p>“You surprised me.” Sounds an impudent voice. Frank cranes his neck up with some difficulty- he wriggles around until he realizes his arms are tied behind his back with another length of rope fastened around his shoulders and waist for good measure. His hoodie and jacket are disheveled enough for him to feel his back flush up against what feels like tree bark. He nictates the spidering veins at the corners of his vision until they’re settled, and glances up- the canopy of a large elm greets him. “I wasn’t expecting you to pull a knife. Credit where it’s due, y’know?” </p><p>Frank blearily meets the stare of the stranger, whose features are more apparent now without the shadows to conceal him. Now, faint shapes of moonlight streak through the trees that surround them and reflect onto the man’s form, and his smiling face. He looks far too lax, hunkered down into a squat, head canted slightly and a familiar knife clasped in his right hand. He taps it languidly against his inner thigh. In his left is another blade- a black-hilted Bowie, polished and glinting. </p><p>Other than that, he looks... exhausted. The man has grey eyes, but if he were any further the colour would be drowned in the copious amount of dark circles he’s sporting. The scruff around his chin is unkempt and patchy. Frank fixes the man with a glare, but remains quiet, tongue heavy in his mouth. </p><p>The man stands and moves closer, right up to his side, before raising the smaller knife and pointing it toward Frank’s neck- the crux between his chin and his throat, mirroring his earlier threat. He pushes himself further toward the tree. He’s trying his hardest not to show any indication of fear and so far it’s working- but he can’t still his heart.</p><p>“Cat got your tongue?” The man taunts. Frank’s nose twitches, red filter returning.</p><p>“Fuck no. I’m just waiting for you to get on with it.” He’s successful; his voice comes out monotone, almost bored, anger auspiciously filtered through along with the fear. That seems to take the man off guard. His dark brows raise and his smile quirks downward for a single beat, only to return a second later. He hums, and Frank’s eyes narrow.</p><p>“Being knocked unconscious is an awfully misunderstood trope... Do you know what a trope is?" He gives his knife a spin. Frank doesn't respond. "In the movies, you can smack someone over the head with a bedpan and they’ll be on the floor in seconds- that part is true, at least. Have you ever seen <em>Fatal Instinct?</em> Laura Lincolnberry could’ve done a lot more damage with that frying pan if she knew what she was doing.” Frank’s never seen Fatal Instinct. And even if he had he doesn’t think he would’ve laughed. “What they don’t get right is the aftermath.”</p><p>Frank’s knife draws downward, tip catching on the parts of his skin covered in ink. It glides along the lines of his tattoo as if the man were delicately trying to cut it out as part of a fucked up arts-and-crafts project. He forces his breath not to hitch, but his heart beats fast enough to pound against his ribs. His wrists struggle against the ropes, but they’re tied tight enough that he thinks they’re going numb. “Even professional boxers have a hard time recovering from a blow like that. They’re confused, don’t know how to respond-” He continues. The light dragging of his knife momentarily gains an ounce of pressure, enough to draw an angry red line across Frank’s neck. He swallows a gasp. Fuck. <em>Fuck. </em>If he wanted to die he would’ve thrown himself off one of the canyons back in Drumheller. “But usually when any sane, <em>reasonable</em> person wakes up tied to a tree with a knife to their throat, there’s a lot more screaming.” He pauses. “Why aren’t you screaming?” The man sounds genuinely inquisitive, the last part of his sentence drawing off into a whisper like he’s posing the question inward as opposed to Frank himself.</p><p>That’s... a pretty good question. Maybe his brain got scrambled when his head hit the dashboard and he isn’t exactly <em>sane and reasonable.</em> Maybe he’s still in some sort of shock state, and his emotions aren’t processing in the way that they should- or, maybe he really is just that good of an actor.</p><p>He remembers, very faintly, one of his older foster brothers telling him that if any creep off the street ever tried to hurt him he had to make himself too much trouble to be worth the hassle- <em>scream, kick, bite, whatever. Nobody’s gonna give enough of a shit to help you, so it’s all down to whatever fight you’ve got to give. </em>But his mind is working on a thankfully quick-witted autopilot, and something tells him that’s exactly what this guy wants. And so, he bites his tongue and forces his brown eyes to steel, solid and unwavering.</p><p>“What? You want me to beg?” A smirk makes its way onto his lips. Hopefully, it looks natural. He pitches his voice higher in mock falsetto. “’<em>I’ll do anything you want, just let me go! I promise I won’t tell anyone! I don’t even know your name!’ </em>... Something like that? I’m not begging for shit.” The stranger’s face falls again, and Frank wonders if he went too far. Or, he hasn’t gone far enough. His wrists ball up into fists behind his back and he grits his teeth. “I’ve killed a man bigger than you. You don’t fucking scare me.” The words fall from his mouth before he has a chance to catch them.</p><p>He shakes when they do, not with fear but with an inkling of pride- he’s never spoken those words. Even with the Legion, he’s never said them out loud and with such clear satisfaction. They wouldn’t let him. Only Julie seemed to revel in it, squared her shoulders and let the blood drip thick from her blade, but she was smart. Her bloodlust, which Frank could feel right down in the crux of his heart, wasn’t sated, but it had been thoroughly quelled.</p><p>That gathers the man’s full attention. Where he’d previously seemed worn out, a grin on his face the only indication that this was anything but routine for him (which is a horrifying thought, if only for Frank himself), he now looks sickeningly interested. His grey eyes light up and he moves closer, bringing himself back to eye level. His nose is almost close enough to brush against Frank’s. He’s bigger than him, by both a couple of inches and a good fifty pounds. The stranger subsumes his vision, plainly adept at playing the intimidation card despite his unremarkable appearance, which only serves to make his current position far more insidious.<em> You’re fucked, Morrison. </em></p><p>“And I’ve killed women whinier than you, but you’re a close second.”</p><p>“Oh? So’s that why you had to tie me up? Cuz you’re used to girls grovelling for their lives while you stand there and jack off?” God, does he want to beg- but more than anything he wants to punch this fucker in the jaw and stab him in the dick with his own knife. He wants to kill him, wants to kill him more than he just wants to live. Rage swells in his chest and boils there until it whistles in his ears, flushing them an angry red. The logical part of his brain <em>should </em>be telling him to give in because clearly, this isn’t working. Instead, it’s egging the more instinctual part of him on. <em>Kill him. Kill him. Would you kill for me, Frank? </em>He sighs. <em>Not even for you. </em></p><p>The rage is swept away, replaced by another placid and forcefully hampered expression. </p><p>“If that’s the case, you might want to find someone else. <em>I’m not begging.</em>” The man opens his mouth to retort, and in response, Frank promptly gathers a wad of spit in his mouth and hocks it up onto the man’s black boot. He doesn’t regret it, even when it feels like he’s spitting into the face of death.</p><p>The stranger’s eyes get hard. His smile falls. It devolves into nothing- no expression, no humour, no anger. A flat slate of marble which scares Frank more than anything else ever could. A tremor starts in his legs and works up into his femora, twitching decidedly away. Frank doesn’t frighten easily- he never has. Even now, faced with the threat of death, he refuses to budge. But that look...</p><p>“I’ve always preferred screaming to begging.” And with that, the knife is plunged into the flesh of Frank’s outstretched thigh. He howls- a nexus of red-hot agony slices through the surface of his skin and the fat of his leg like butter, and he raises his head toward the sky, eyes screwing closed and teeth clenching down so hard he feels metal bloom in his mouth. Wet trickles down into the dirt, staining his jeans black in a floret before building into a heated gush. After the initial shock subsides (feels like ages- like he’s suspended in pain, all the way from the tip of his toe to the side of his ribs) he balls his fists tighter and forces his head back down, bares his teeth and snarls. </p><p>
  <em>You’re going to die. You’re going to die alone in the remote backwoods of trashy Alberta, on a cold, wet night, and nobody’s going to hear you scream. You always knew it’d end like this- alone, and far too young, but fuck all things Holy if you’re not going down swinging.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>That’s our Frankie. </em>
</p><p>He catches his breath.</p><p>“... I’ve had worse.” He’s telling the truth, so it doesn’t seem ham-fisted- only undercut by the feverish groan that follows. Although all the other times he’d gotten into fights that ended with a patchwork of stitches, it’d been over a wallet or bruised pride and not the menace of murder.</p><p>His knife twists in its makeshift socket. Frank cries out again and blood trickles from his mouth, tongue droning in reproach.</p><p>“Really now?” When Frank meets his eyes the man’s face is still inert- listless. Yet, there’s something in his gaze that lingers- a faint, scarlet spark. “I can fix that.” He pulls the knife out and Frank’s throat is getting sore. He stabs into his other leg, and the process repeats.</p><p>“Fuck you!” He screams. Again- twist, back to the first leg. <em>“Suck my cock!” </em>Again. Again. <em>Again. </em>That’s still his voice, right? It keeps going. Eventually, it gives out, and he’s just screaming, until he’s not screaming anymore, and there’s just the sound of metal skimming through the air. He hears a faint groan, disconnected from his own throat.</p><p>Everything hurts. Dying really <em>fucking </em>hurts. Who knew?</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. He Who Tries Will Be Wasted</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>tws for this chapter: brief deadnaming, references to violence against sex workers, slutshaming, etc. take care and enjoy.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Frank opens his eyes. The first thing he sees is a fan. It turns languidly, and he watches as it spins around, once, twice, three times. It’s white against the cream coloured popcorn-paint of the ceiling. He winces as he sits up, and tries to run his hand through his hair- only for his arm to stop about halfway through. He looks down to see that his wrist, now bare of any wrappings, is handcuffed to the frame of the bed in which he’s lying. His hoodie and jacket are gone, and he’s been changed into one of his endlessly distressed Iron Maiden t-shirts- this one’s a single missing thread away from falling apart. He’s even tucked in, which is horrifying, because this is most certainly not a hospital, and he is most certainly not a patient. Under the gritty sheets, he can sense an ache in his legs- he pulls them back to see that his pants are gone as well, replaced with a copious amount of bandages swaddled tight around his lower thighs. A neat length of rope is also wrapped around his ankles, tied off with a boy scout-level series of knots. At least he’s been left in his boxers. </p><p>He feels clean, like he’s been bathed- which in turn makes him feel dirty. He sits up, restrained arm forced awkwardly above his head, before drawing his free arm over and across his wrist to test the strength of the cuffs. After gathering what he can of his strength (It isn’t much. His muscles are painfully weak and it hurts just to sit up. He briefly considers that he’s been out for days as opposed to hours), he yanks with an audible grunt. Nothing budges. They’re solid metal, the kind cops use, not the shitty kinky ones you’d be able to buy at a stag shop.<em> Shit. </em></p><p>To his right, a door opens. <em> Double shit. </em></p><p>“Good morning!” Chirps a voice. He startles and straightens, only to hiss in pain- his legs cramp and sting and he’s suddenly far too aware of every discomforting throb in his body. He peers through the mess of blonde that is his hair, matted and unbrushed. The man- he really wishes that he could have a name to pair with that shitty fucking face- looks at him from across the room, a greasy McDonald's bag in his hand. He looks less tired than he did earlier (a few hours or a few days ago)- and less bloody. His scruff has been shaved down into something less patchy and more contained, and the bags under his eyes have faded from harsh black bruises to faint lines of violet. “Thank God you woke up. I was starting to think I put you in a coma. Would’ve had to bury you alive.” A grin stretches across his pale features like he’d just told a joke, and a shiver runs up Frank’s spine.</p><p>“Why the fuck am I not dead?” His voice sounds hoarse. The man seems to note that as he steps forward and offers Frank a plastic water bottle off of the nightstand at his side. Frank simply glares, and the man shrugs, before putting it back down. There’s a beat of silence before he greedily grabs the bottle by himself, uncaps it, and starts chugging. He doesn’t stop even when the other starts to speak.</p><p>“I didn’t aim for anything important. If I wanted you dead I would’ve gone for the middle.” He sits down on the end of Frank’s bed, inches away from his feet. Frank quickly gains the urge to kick him, lunge forward, scratch his eyes out,<em> anything. </em>And he almost does- however, as soon as he moves his legs the pain subsumes him. He keels over and bares his teeth, nearly dropping the water bottle. He pulls it into his chest and squeezes it, sending a small jet of water across his lap. The man sighs. “Or the throat.”</p><p>“Okay. Next question. <em> Why </em> the fuck didn’t you kill me?” That’s the ticket. The other smiles and fishes a burger out of the bag, throwing it onto the comforter beside him. Frank twitches, and his mouth waters- it smells good- better than anything’s ever smelled in a long, long time. His stomach growls, which makes the man snicker. Frank glares at him only to find that he’s borderline <em>fawning. </em>His glare fixes itself into a scowl.</p><p>He hasn’t been this hungry in a long time either- not since he’d been a kid and real meals were hard to come by, only offered by the occasional helping hand or a rarely compelled social worker. Before he learned that he couldn’t rely on other people to keep him from going hungry. Before he learned that it felt better just to <em>take. </em>He pushes the thought aside and uses all of his willpower not to grab at it with the same amount of desperation as he had the water. The man rolls his eyes.</p><p>“We just established that I didn’t try to kill you with a knife. Are you really stupid enough to think that I’d just end up poisoning you instead?” Frank grits his teeth, brows furrowing.</p><p>“That’s not the point.”</p><p>“Is the point pride?” It is. “I know you don’t beg, kid. Think of it as an olive branch.” He considers that, brown eyes dropping back down to the burger. A second later he’s tearing into the wrapper and tossing it haphazardly to the floor and shoving it into his mouth. Fulfilling its promise, it tastes like heaven in his mouth, greasy and artificial in all the perfect ways. He resists the urge to keen. “Don’t eat it too fast- you’ll get sick. You’ve been in bed for two days, sleeping beauty. If you vomit all over yourself I’m not giving you another bath.” He ignores the ‘sleeping beauty’ comment, although it does send a small flush across his cheeks which is promptly exacerbated by the following ‘bath’ comment.</p><p>"That all you wanted? To get me naked? Ever hear of asking nicely, freak?” He says this all while scarfing down the burger (slower now, but he almost speeds himself up so he can throw up out of spite), too wrapped up in satisfying his hunger to take a break. The man gives him an incredulous look as if he’d just said something stupid, and that of all things makes Frank pause.</p><p>“Believe me when I say that is <em> not </em> all I wanted.” His tone turns dark. It promises something Frank doesn’t yet understand, laden with something clandestine. His gaze shifts to bore straight into Frank’s own. His flush spreads down to his neck, and he doesn’t know why. The man’s irises are blank again, featureless- he realizes that his eyes have always been like that, no matter his expression. Even when he smiles, nothing ever meets his eyes, save for when he’d plunged his knife into Frank’s thigh. There’d been a glint then- faint, but present. “I left your underwear on anyway; they needed washing.” <em> Comforting. </em>“A 'thank you’ would be nice.”</p><p>Frank stops and thinks. If this guy didn't kill him, maybe his showboating worked- which means he needs to tone it down, just a touch, lest he goes berserk again and ends up ‘aiming for the middle’. There’s little else he can do, current state considered- he doubts that he can walk with the gaping holes in his legs, not to mention the ropes and the handcuffs. He’s starting to think that he might have to play the long game until he can find help. <em> Help. </em> Fat load of shit asking for help’s gotten him so far, huh? </p><p>"I’m not going to thank you for not killing me." His voice comes out softer than he’d intended, though, simultaneously, just as defiant. The stranger considers him for a time, then turns away so that his back is to Frank. He’s wearing a different button-down. Black this time, hiked up around his lightly toned forearms. He can see dark fabric stretch across muscle. The man isn’t bulky- nor is he conspicuously strong looking. But that, just like the rest of him, is intentionally deceptive.</p><p>“What’s your name, kid?”</p><p>“Tell me yours and maybe I’ll think about it.”</p><p>“Richard.” Comes a deadpan response, no hesitation besides the following silence that lays thick between them. Frank wavers as he nibbles on the rest of his burger. He can see that ‘Richard’ has been messing with a first aid kit on a desk beside the door, pulling out what looks like rolls of gauze, Neosporin and disinfectant wipes. It dawns on him then that he’s left himself with absolutely no deniability, and he's most certainly going to die if he doesn't suck up to his captor all the while playing hard to get.</p><p>"Gonna be honest, you don't look like much of a Richard." Said man turns to face him, hands full of medical supplies.</p><p>"And you don't look like much of a...” Those words nearly stop his heart. Frank’s eyes narrow.<em> What the fuck? </em> He scrambles intramurally, racking his brain for any reason why Richard would know his legal name other than… A wave of relief passes through his chest, and he can’t stop his shoulders from bowing in repose. His health card, passport, birth certificate- they’re all in his duffle bag, currently open and clearly dug-through on a chair beside the blinded window. <em> A window. </em>He’ll come back to that later.</p><p>“Yeah.<em> I don’t. </em>The name’s Frank.” If Richard starts calling him by his old name, Frank’s going to call him Susan, and then he’s going to die on that hill quite literally. Richard only smiles.</p><p>“Frank. That suits you better.” His tone is charming and smooth as if they’re making small talk- as if he doesn’t have him tied up in a Motel 6. As if he hadn’t just tried to kill him two nights ago. And for a second, Frank falls for it- he smiles in return, only to berate himself internally immediately after. <em> Christ. Something definitely got knocked out of place in my head. </em>His grin falls back into angry petulance, cemented when the weight around his wrist grows heavy.</p><p>“So's long as we're on a first-name basis, you think you're up to giving me the key for this thing?" Richard lets out a sing-song hum. He taps his forefinger against his lip and tips his head back and forth. Then, he shakes it, dropping the supplies onto the bed.</p><p>"Maybe once you’ve earned my trust. For now, you get to stay nice and secure."</p><p>"Right." Frank lowers. If he wasn’t so weak, and his body didn't scream at him every time he moved, he'd already have his hands around Richard’s shitty neck. He’s stabbed people for smaller slights. For now, he's going to have to stay put. "How do you think I'm going to go about earning your trust?" Richard’s answer- once again- comes far too quickly for his liking. He picks up Frank’s duffle bag and sets it on the ground, listlessly sitting in the chair where it’d previously been laid. He crosses his legs, then his arms, and cants his head.</p><p>“Easy. Tell me about your first time.” That takes Frank off guard. His whole body heats up and he drops the handcuff’s chain. He stumbles over his thoughts, short-circuiting until all of his emotions finally turn to ire- a feeling that’s always been an easy fit. He has to keep himself from raising his voice, trying to pick a fight. He’s not getting anywhere if he doesn’t at least try to play nice.</p><p>"I was eighteen. She was in my french class. Is that all? Trustworthy enough for you?” He almost growls. “Or are you enough of a freak that you wanna hear all about clumsy teen sex?" Richard has the gall to chuckle at that. He shakes his head, then stands up just as quickly as he’d sat down. The man seems to like moving around a lot, animated and theatrical- Frank thinks that another trait he’d add to the ever-growing list would be <em> dramatic, </em> especially when he closes the gap between them and looms over Frank’s body like a shadow. He sinks into the bed, shoulders bending back, just as Richard grabs his chin with a deft hand. His fingers are long and thin, but the power behind them is clear when he grips it tight. The heat returns, threefold and glowing, and he knows that he’s the reddest he’s been, especially when he’s forced to look up. He forgets that he even has a free hand to push back with- it instead lays limp at his side. The glint is back.</p><p>"I don’t care who you've been sleeping around with.” He tries not to be offended at the insinuation, especially since it’s partially true. He’s used to sleeping around- So what? Is Richard some sort of killer purity cop? A Joel Rifkin in the making? The man continues. He’s breathing heavily, and the light in his eyes is growing, pupils blown wide. “Who was the big man you took down, Frankie?” A warm puff of air hits his cheek. He can smell Richard’s cologne now that it isn’t clouded by the rain. It’s strong and perfervid, all-consuming. He wants to tell the guy to fuck off, but he can’t get his mouth to form the words. Rather, he discerns the urge to lean into it- the attention, the sheer unhinged complexion. It’s mesmerizing. He realizes that it’s the same magnetic attraction he’d first felt around Julie, the choleric nature within her struggling to get out, too big for her body. But Richard seems perfectly at home- the darkness belongs to him, not the other way around. <em>"How did it feel to kill? </em>" Frank swallows.</p><p>“Big guy who pissed me off back home. That’s all.” It’s a lie, but one that’s close enough to the truth. He’d stabbed him in a moment of panic- wanted him off of Jules and didn't think about it twice. That's always been his downfall. Impulse. He’s good at thinking things through right up until they actually matter. He doesn’t want to think about how it’d been sublime- that when claret splattered against the mâché of his mask and stained it with red he felt as if he were truly in control for the first time in his entire life. How he’d stared at it for hours after the fact, drawn the pads of his fingers over the Glasgow smile his then-girlfriend had painted on in blood with her own. "What about all those <em>whiny women? </em>You actually kill them too, or was that posturing? Because so far I'm not impressed." He pauses. "And don't call me Frankie." </p><p>Just like that, his strange gravity falls apart. Richard literally <em>laughs in his face </em>and pulls away as he drops his chin. Frank hisses a curse under his breath as he’s pushed back against the headboard. The other man begins pawing through his own bag, but he can’t see what’s inside from his position on the bed. He’s facing away is what matters, leaving Frank to stare at his back. </p><p>"I'm not making any promises." His small-talk tone returns. Frank rolls his eyes. Then, he says something peculiar. "What do you know about The Ghostface Killer?" Frank gives him a look of uncertainty. Then, he shrugs.</p><p>“I know enough. Fucker runs around in a Halloween costume and guts co-eds and housewives when they're home alone. People shit their pants over him when he's probably just some fat balding fuck who hasn't been able to get it up for his wife in ten years. What? You trying to use him as inspiration?” He laughs, successfully pushing down the weird little knot that had begun tightening itself in his guts. “Might want to find yourself another victim if that's the case. And another venue. Homeless kids and Motel 6’s aren’t exactly his M.O- find yourself an old lady and a vacation home in Florida."</p><p>“We’re in a Rodeway.” Is Richard’s retort. He sounds… annoyed, which is strange. Maybe he hit some sort of sore spot- maybe The Ghostface Killer is less of an inspiration to the man and more of an idol. Regardless, he’s humming something tuneless. He turns back around to face Frank, a notebook in his hands now, along with a pen. “You tempt me to dump you off where I found you, but I think we're going to have lots of <em> fun.</em>” He draws closer, just to ruffle Frank’s matted hair. The younger man scowls and forcefully bats it away.</p><p>“Don’t fucking touch me.” He’s ignored.</p><p>“Besides- you would die of infection in a week if I left you out there all alone.” He continues. It sounds condescending, a soft, saccharine tone that suggests Frank is a child that needs comforting. He hates it.</p><p>"Yeah. What will I do if you aren't here to dote on me, right?" He doesn't like that the word 'fun' was thrown in there so casually. He remembers the ribbed blade of his own knife breaching the first layer of his skin, imparting shockwaves of pain into the rest of his body. The chain around his wrist, the ropes around his ankles, everything <em> wrong </em>with this situation collectively swells against his form all at once. He flexes his muscles under the bandages and they shriek back up at him, furious at being disturbed. As long as 'fun' doesn't consist of finishing the job and burying his lifeless body in the woods, he thinks he can ride it out for as long as it takes to gain the upper hand and get the fuck out of dodge. That, or die trying. "You're a saint, Rich."</p><p>Richard would have made an exceptional nurse if he wasn’t in the habit of holding people against their will. Frank supposes that something similar could be said of himself- in fact, it has (though, his habits were more or less petty). People used to tell him that if he applied himself and actually <em>gave a shit </em>then he’d be set for life- ‘set’ implying some tedious little office job filing paperwork. When the faux-concern finally faded, they called him a punk. Consequently, that’s what he became; and he revelled in it. Revelled in freedom from people pretending to care. Freedom from expectations. Freedom to do anything he pleased.</p><p>The sound of medical tape ripping from the roll brings him out of his thoughts. The bow of Frank’s mouth goes sullen as Richard wraps another length of gauze around his left thigh and down to the subtle lift of his knee. Subtle lines of red bloom, peeking through the bandages, though not as glaringly as they would against the pale matte of his skin. He's being rubbed down with disinfectant when Frank notices that the deepest of his injuries (of which there were plenty) had been stitched shut with nearly clinical precision.</p><p>The fact that Richard has practice in nursing stab wounds sent another pang of fear through him for reasons which he didn’t want to dwell upon, especially while the man has Frank’s legs spread horizontally across his lap. They’re smaller in comparison. Frank’s always been on the thinner side- the aftermath of an unfortunate combination of childhood neglect and genetics. He’d managed to bulk himself up a bit via a few years on the basketball team, but when he’s wearing nothing but boxers and a t-shirt, it’s hard to hide the slimmer planes of his shoulders and waist.</p><p>Frank stays silent, mostly. Occasionally he’ll hiss in pain or grip at the edge of the bed and his captor will chuckle to himself before adjusting his motions so that they’re accordingly softer. That only makes him want to wriggle more. He’s decided to let the man play doctor for now. It's the opposite of causing him more pain.</p><p>The less strain there’s left on his body come his time of escape, the easier it’ll be to fight him off if- when- he needs to. He tries not to look at the window again, blinds still closed to partially conceal the mid-afternoon sun. Streaks of light flit through them, splattering across the bedsheets and cream-coloured walls, dancing every time the pines outside wither in the breeze.</p><p>Richard tucks away a length of excess gauze, taking out a pair of thin scissors to clip it away. Frank wants to grab those scissors and poke Richard’s eyes out with them. He’s being… tender, which is far more alarming than any sort of rough treatment would be. But considering that this is the cleanest, warmest, and most importantly well-fed Frank’s been for about a week, he allows himself a small measure of repose, right up until Richard’s hand places itself delicately on the skin of his inner thigh.</p><p>There’s no stab wound there. Frank’s spine goes rigid as his brown eyes draw downward, purposefully avoiding the patchwork mess that is his upper leg. There are smudges of scarlet and near-black bruises spidering across his skin, but thankfully nothing yellow or secretion or shiny. No infection.</p><p>“These aren’t that old…” Richard muses to himself in a quietus whisper. His thumb drags across a series of faded mauve and ivory scars that criss-cross- some are clearly deeper than the others, puckering around the edges. His head cants, but his eyes are still painfully blank. “Do you hurt yourself, Frank?” He feels his shoulders shake with rage. Frank surges backward with enough impetus to force the man’s hand off of his leg and back onto the bed. </p><p><em> “Fuck off.” </em> His timbre is bathed in venom, choleric and pulled thin across his teeth. It’s a voice he’s utilized countless times, both to intimidate and escalate, but as of late he hasn’t had to use it as a rampart. Nobody’s been stupid enough to try backing him into a corner since the day he stepped foot in Ormond; Frank Morrison, a new kid from the big city, worldly and callous. The wide-eyed student body of Fairview High was curious, but never had the nerve to pose questions they didn’t want to know the answers to.</p><p>“No need to get defensive.” Richard continues, raising his hand again to lay on Frank’s shin. He’s getting far too comfortable touching him. Like they were friends- like Frank wouldn’t take the first opportunity he could to stab him in the throat. The weight from his hand feels heavier than even the chain around his wrist. Frank trembles, not out of fear, but wrath. Shut up. “It was just a question...”<em> Shut up. </em>“Are you going to give me the silent treatment again, Frankie? That didn’t work out well for you last time, did it?”</p><p>“I said fuck off!” He raises his fist before he can reconsider. Frank trains a firm punch toward Richard’s face- only for the other to easily grab his hand up in his own and twist his arm back into a Spartan flex. His expression doesn’t change, but as he squeezes Frank’s clenched hand with all the strength of a machine (which he yelps at, rage submitting to consternation and strain), he swears that his mouth twists with what looks like subtle disappointment. “I'll kill you! Let me go, you son of a-!” The squeeze becomes a crushing weight. Frank lets out a cry that echoes around the room, before screaming again in guttural protest. Richard has the gall to release an exasperated sigh like he’s the parent of a child throwing a tantrum. </p><p>He moves closer to Frank while the younger man thrashes with newfound vigour, his chained wrist straining loudly against the bedpost. Then, he casually bears his full weight onto Frank’s legs, narrowly avoiding the wounds he’d been nursing. <em> It still hurts. </em>He isn't surprised when Richard’s free hand cups itself around his mouth, effectively gagging him, tight as a vice. Tears prick at the corners of Frank’s eyes and frustration bubbles hot in his gut. He sticks the tip of his tongue out and licks his palm, hoping to make him flinch, blanch, <em> something. </em> The man does nothing but smirk crisply. <em> Creep. </em></p><p>“You don’t know when to give up, do you?” Richard doesn’t sound mad, but his tone is piqued. Frank rolls his eyes. If this psycho wanted someone who was going to give up without a fight, he chose the wrong victim. “I guess it’s admirable. It’s also part of the reason why you’re not dead. But it’s starting to get a little-” Frank tries to throw him off, but only gains enough traction to wiggle his torso, proving Richard’s next point when he feels a spike of pain in his thigh. “<em>Annoying,</em> kid. You’re going to pull your stitches.” Frank blinks when his eyes begin to water further. “Now quit your yapping.”</p><p>They stay like that until Frank stops trying to struggle, huffing out a final breath. He looks up into Richard’s leer, trying to gauge any sort of riposte. As he’s begun to expect, there’s nothing but flat, torpid colour. Frank nods stiffly.</p><p>“Good boy.” He’s released, somewhat. Richard still has a grip on his arm and his weight on his legs. Frank opens his mouth to retort with something snappy, something about how <em>that’s kinky. </em>An attempt to win back some sort of power in their conversation, maybe. Or to see how much further he can test the waters. But before the thought finishes forming, mouth open to compose a reply, a wad of fabric is shoved between his lips. He startles, eyes widening. He can’t tell what it is. A cloth or something, maybe from the bathroom, which he’s both amazed at and simultaneously thankful that he hasn’t had to use yet (probably due to the dehydration. That water bottle had truly been his saviour). He lets out a cry of alarm, muffled twofold as Richard shoves it further into his mouth and grabs the roll of medical tape from his side. He begins roughly wrapping it around Frank’s head, mummifying it partially and quieting the subsequent,</p><p>“Uck ou!” Richard shrugs.</p><p>“I just remembered that I have an appointment to get to.” An appointment. <em> Really. </em> Is Richard going to get his cavities filled while he has a man tied up in his motel room? Where are they anyway? Are they still in Alberta? <em> Canada, </em> even? His frustration returns, but this time he doesn’t let his eyes water. He simply glares with every fibre of his being painted with malice into the side of Richard’s skull while the other begins to dig through his bag. He pulls out a length of rope and starts (with plenty of angry resistance) joining Frank’s slim arms together with a tight knot. It's awkward and uncomfortable, considering he's still handcuffed to the frame.</p><p>After a moment spent considering his work with a look that Frank can only describe as momentary pride, Richard slips off the bed and, in a series of exaggerated movements, stretches his arms above his head. <em> Oh, screw you. </em></p><p>“If you’re here when I'm back, I'll try to feed you without getting my fingers bitten off. How does pizza sound?” Small-talk tone, cheery and annoyingly pedestrian. Frank’s nose twitches as Richard pats his thigh one last time, grabs a ‘do not disturb’ card from off of the nightstand beside him, and walks to the door. He makes a show of opening it wide enough so that Frank can see the hallway- white walls, tan carpet, a black-framed photo of a cityscape he can’t name off the top of his head- before slipping the card onto the doorknob and shutting it with a distinct click.</p><p>“A-ole.”</p><p>His jaw already hurts. He moves his tongue around in his mouth. It butts against the fabric of the cloth and wettens. He hasn’t been able to stretch his legs- only wriggle in place. He does so, attempting to dispel the cramps that have begun to settle back into his muscles, the aching buzz seeping across his arms and shoulders… maybe he’s just restless. </p><p>Clearly, nobody took note of his ten-second screaming session, or they did, and couldn’t give enough of a shit to call the front desk. He’ll just have to figure out a way to keep making noise. He tests his bindings again, knowing that any attempt to worm out of them is fruitless, but that doesn’t stop him from trying. For five minutes straight he wrestles with himself, repositions his body on the bed, flips around so that he’s as close to the window as he possibly can be. If he could just move two more feet, he’d be able to reach it and slam his fist against the glass or at least get a better vantage point of the street below. It’s almost as if Richard took every single angle into account- the distance between the right side of the bed and the wall, the closed blinds to quite literally keep Frank in the dark- and fuck, even the fact that the remote for the damn TV is too far across the room for him to reach. Bastard couldn’t even put MTV on before he left to go kick puppies or some shit. It’d be better than silence. </p><p>He rests the back of his head against the headboard and tries to listen through the walls, the vents, the floors above and below him. There’s nothing. He supposes that, wherever Richard’s taken him, it doesn’t get many visitors, which narrows it down to… about ninety percent of the Canadian south-west.</p><p>He thumps his head again, one last attempt to alert whoever might be in the room behind him before he shuffles down back against the starchy pillows and closes his eyes.</p><hr/><p>Frank wakes up in the dark. He glances around, blearily. The TV is on, turned to a CTV news channel. A reporter with an umbrella stands out in the rain, microphone tight in her manicured hand. He can barely hear what she’s saying- the volume’s only loud enough for him to catch her voice when he stills his breath. Something about a storm warning. <em> Small graces, </em>he thinks. If he were still trudging down the road right now he’d probably get struck by lightning and die with how his luck’s been treating him. The gag is out of his mouth, and he can assume that he now has free movement of his left arm since it’s tucked underneath his head. Blue light filters through the room, across the bed and walls, and for one brief moment, he feels calm.</p><p>There’s another person’s weight on the bed. He peeks over his shoulder. Richard is next to him, side flush against his back. He's silhouetted by the dark, like he was in the car, except this time his features are bathed in flickering blue light. He looks… peaceful, in an odd way. His mien is void of emotion as he stares with empty eyes at the rickety television set, jean-clad legs curled neatly to his chest. He's wearing a different outfit again- A white t-shirt underneath a dark blue and silver tartan top. Frank assumes that he's the type to wear the same boring adult shit in the same two shades (not that Frank can say much, considering all he wears are band t-shirts, hoodies, jeans and basketball shorts). At least he looks less 'business casual' and more like he could, feasibly, be reclining in bed watching the news like a normal human being.</p><p>Which he is. For the most part. Frank knows that the alternative route is killing him, or letting him go and getting arrested.</p><p>Propped up on Richard’s knee and open to a half-blank page is the spiral notebook he’d taken out earlier. He’s writing in cursive. It’s small and crabbed, unreadable from Frank’s position on the bed and in the dim lighting. Every once in a while, he’ll look away from the TV and down toward the floor, as if he’s trying to remember something important. In tandem, he lifts the blue pen held in his right hand to his lips and absently chews on the cap. For the first time, Frank notices that right below his hairline is a faint scar. It’s small enough to dismiss at first glance- a single elongated pockmark on his pale skin. He makes up scenarios in his head to explain its appearance. A car accident, a bar fight, or something more humiliating and benign, like tripping and falling on his head. Frank’s face quirks into a tired smile at the thought.</p><p>Suddenly, Richard grabs the remote from between his legs, pumping the volume up to fifty. There’s a different reporter now- two of them, as the screen pans backward. A man sits beside a woman, dressed in a tie and a low-cut pantsuit respectively. The woman speaks, her tone appropriately sullen.</p><p>“Twenty-three-year-old Lillian Graves was found brutally murdered on June twenty-seventh after elderly couple Andrew and Judith Perry were discovered in a similar state in their Seattle homes just two weeks prior. Police are investigating these killings as possible connections to the ongoing Ghostface Killer murders, which began with a string of slayings in Roseville five years ago come September." Richard is glued to the screen. His gaze is lit up, hanging off of the woman’s every word. He chews on the cap of his pen like it’s popcorn as she directs the viewer's attention to an on-site reporter, who holds an umbrella in his hand as well. The sky is darker there and the wind is blowing harsh enough to skim across the mic, but luckily it looks as if the rain is simply spitting.</p><p>“This is Anthony Murphy reporting live from Seattle just two blocks away from the home of the late Lillian Graves. Late on the night of June twenty-seventh, forty-seven-year-old Diane Graves pulled up to her niece’s townhouse to pick her up for a night on the town- only to discover her mangled body, crudely displayed in the front foyer of her own home. Earlier this week, Diane was kind enough to provide us with an interview.” The scene cuts again to an older woman.</p><p>Her hair is long and dark, interwoven with streaks of silver. She’s sullen-looking, her green eyes wet and rimmed with red, and she has a clear air of haughtiness to her that Frank’s seen a hundred times over. He loses interest the moment she starts tearing up. A single syllable has yet to leave her mouth. He huffs out a breath.</p><p>People love playing shit up for cameras. He can’t really blame them, whatever their reasons might be- five minutes of fame, the feeling of thousands of eyes on you, their attention captured for even just a moment. It’s tempting, and he can’t say he isn’t prone to ‘playing shit up’ himself. It’s practically his bread and butter, and he knows it; give people what they think they want and they’re putty in your hands. But there’s something about a grown woman crying on national television that’s just pathetic.</p><p>Richard, on the other hand, is giving the woman his full attention. He scrawls something into his notebook as she blubbers out her story. He does that for a while, cocks his head when she begins to describe the body and its desecrated state- and Frank can’t look away when he sees the man <em> smile. </em> It’s broad; all teeth, bright and ivory in the dark. A slow, familiar shiver runs through Frank, like fingers languidly ghosting across his spine. </p><p>It dawns on him then that the Ghostface Killer isn’t just an idol to Richard. He’s fucking <em> obsessed </em>with the guy.</p><p>Diane Grave’s voice fades out into nothing. The broadcast comes to an abrupt end with the ebullient punctuation of,</p><p>“And now, Dave, with sports.” The absurdity only serves to make him huff out a silent laugh. People really don't give a shit, do they? They pretend to care, but in the end, it's all hockey games and lotto numbers. It’s not as if he has any sympathy either- people die all the damn time, barbarously and without warning. At least he doesn’t lie about it. At least he remembers what it all truly is- a fucking joke.</p><p>At least he can laugh about it as he stands in the flames, sparks licking at his battered high tops, viscera splattered across his jeans and a bloody smile painted on his mask.</p><p>Frank’s pulled from his musings when Richard closes his notebook sharply. He picks the remote up again, and the television set clicks off with a sharp and static blink. The older man lets out a teetering breath, and Frank's brows furrow in disgust. He sounds like he's bathing in the afterglow of jerking himself off. <em> Fucking hell. </em> Frank shuffles a few centimetres away. The silence pervades after that. He stares into the inky blackness of the room surrounding him, burrows into the sheets.</p><p>He lays like that for what seems like hours- might've been, probably was hours- until a firm arm wraps itself tight around his chest and pulls him back into a warm expanse. </p><p>Frank stiffens. His breath jumps in his throat, and his face flushes hot with shame. Richard is sound asleep. He can feel the man’s heartbeat move with his own, feels his lungs expand and contract. Feels his heat against his, another form, living, breathing. He hates that he likes it.</p><p>He’s missed this- being touched, delicately. Tenderly. Richard's cologne hits his nose again and floods his senses. It smells cheap, like pure alcohol and imitation sandalwood.</p><p>It doesn't take long for him to fall asleep again, but this time, he dreams. </p><hr/><p>He’s sat on the floor in apartment number 308, fingers picking at the carpet. The whole house is dark. In front of him is an old television set; the imprint of an episode of <em>Terre Humaine </em>flickers in and out, muted colours dancing across the room. He feels fingers in his hair, cut short into a dark brown bob. They’re thin, manicured, perfect fingers. An enervated little tune plays from the beat-in speakers.</p><p>“Maman?” He calls out, pitched and child-like. He peers over his shoulder. A woman sits on a worn-out armchair, her tired brown eyes buried in lines of sleeplessness. Her hair is long, white-blonde, and perfectly coiffed despite her clear exhaustion. She’s beautiful, willowy and tall, and her cream full-length nightgown isn’t long enough to cover her mile-long legs. They cut off just above her shins.</p><p>“Oui mon ange?” Frank leans back on his arms, shoulders squaring.</p><p>“Nothing, Maman.” He just wanted to hear her voice.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Lipstick, Cherry All Over The Lens</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>no tws this chapter as far as i know, let me know if i missed anything! please enjoy.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It’s ten in the morning according to the guide screen when Frank wakes up to some faux-hardcore music video on MTV. The volume has been lowered to a flat mummer as not to disturb him. He doesn’t remember falling asleep to it the night before, which means that Richard presumably turned it on before he left.</p><p>He palms around for the remote and finds it sitting on the nightstand right beside his head. He takes it in his free hand and begins absently flipping through the channels only to find nothing of note. It didn’t take a lot of convincing for Richard to let him have TV privileges, especially since he’d otherwise had to have spent the last four fucking days doing nothing but staring at the ceiling. All he had to do was promise that he’d stop whining whenever Richard changed the channel to CTV. Frank regrets not making a joke about how Richard just wants to see what his boyfriend the Ghostface Killer is up to; instead, he’d simply accepted his ‘gift’ and decided it would be better not to push his luck.</p><p>Since he’d first woken up, he’s been let free twice a day to piss and stretch his legs, which had thankfully been untied when he’d stopped kicking at Richard’s face like an unruly bronco whenever he needed his bandages changed. The workout plan doesn’t give him much freedom past the physical; Richard’s eyes are on him from the moment he unlocks the handcuffs and slips the key into his pocket until he fastens his arm to the bedpost again, save for the bathroom. He needs to pee now, actually- and he <em>really </em>needs a fucking cigarette. He’d stopped smoking the equivalent of a pack an hour a few months before he’d been kicked out of Clive’s place.</p><p>It’d started to take its toll on him- Julie pointed out that sometimes he’d have trouble breathing in his sleep, and his fingertips were turning black with tobacco, not just the spaces underneath his fingernails. That doesn’t mean he’d quit cold turkey- he still smoked once or twice a day when he felt especially pissed off or stressed, and like hell he hasn’t been in a perpetual state of both for the last few days.</p><p>The door to the room opens, and Richard passes through with his typical lively gait. He’s often gone by the time Frank wakes up- the first night after he’d regained consciousness (when they’d slept in the same bed), he was gone when the sun rose high enough to peek through the blinded window. </p><p>He breaches the gap between in an instant; Frank braces himself, tucking his shoulders up to his ears and looking the man right in the eyes with an uncertain frown.</p><p>He doesn’t know what he’d been expecting, but Richard letting him free so early in the morning when he typically waited for Frank to start petulantly complaining certainly wasn’t it. The chain loosens around his hand enough for it to slip through and fall limply to the bed- he swiftly grabs it up and begins to rub at the tender flesh of his joint, the pads of his fingers running along a harsh red indent in his pale skin. Richard grins, catlike and complacent in the face of Frank’s confusion. </p><p>“I can tell you’re getting tired of takeout, but unfortunately I’m not in the position to cook for you like a good host- so, we’re going across the street for breakfast.” Frank narrows his eyes in disbelief.</p><p>“You mean... with me?” Richard seems delighted by his puzzlement. He ruffles his hair and curls his lip, smile moving to quirk the side of his mouth. Frank wants to bite his fingers off. "For real?"</p><p>“Yes, for real. Get ready. You have half an hour before I change my mind and lock you in the closet with the ironing board.” After a moment of hesitation, Frank’s legs sweep up from underneath the covers and onto the carpeted floor. Richard peels away after grabbing the remote off the bed, taking a seat on the armchair, laid-back and natural.</p><p>“Right. Got it.” As much as he hates to admit it, Richard keeping a steadfast eye on him has one upside; if Frank stumbles due to the spasmodic pain in his legs, the man’s always ready to catch him around his underarms. It’s embarrassing, and fucking <em>pitiful, </em>especially considering the fact that Richard’s the one who fucked him up so bad in the first place. If he pitches now, Frank’s going to start screaming until Richard chokes him to death just so that he doesn’t have to put up with the nannying anymore.</p><p>He moves his full weight onto his legs and stands up completely- shifts his hips back and forth, raises each leg with increasing experimental stretches. Nothing too adventurous, but enough to test the waters. So far so good- the thrumming ache is ever-present no matter what he does, but he’s come to accept that as a baseline. Frank then squares his shoulders and makes his way toward the bathroom. Richard doesn’t follow. He opens the door. Richard doesn’t follow. He’s still sat on the armchair, legs crossed and arms folded over his chest, attention seized utterly by the news rather than his captive. With one last tentative movement, he shuts the bathroom door completely, wincing when it closes with a click. Again- nothing. He sighs in relief. </p><p>After he does his business, he washes his hands while taking a cursory glance at the mirror- that cursory glance quickly overstays its welcome. He looks himself in the eyes. Whereas previously they were underlaid with a sleepy swell, the pale features of his face look fuller and less like they belong to an insomniac. Even in the flat and dismal flickering light, he doesn’t look half bad. His lips aren’t as cracked as they usually are, but that’s mostly due to the weather; his body’s grown used to the arid, inclement zephyrs of Mount Ormond. His hair is still an unfortunate mess, however. Brown-rooted blonde chunks stick out in various tufts and directions. Frank’s hair might not be straw, but it sure is fried as hell.</p><p>All that to say he looks <em>insufferably </em>well-rested.</p><p>The water’s still running. He turns the tap off and turns around to find a set of clothes carefully laid out for him across the edge of the tiny motel bathtub. A Twisted Sister shirt, pair of jeans, some socks- even his mutilated high-tops which sit precariously atop the pile. Of <em>course</em> Richard picked out his clothes for him like Frank’s a fucking child. Nonetheless, he changes into the outfit accumulated from his duffle bag, half wanting to throw them out of the room in spite and slam the door shut again. </p><p>He hadn’t left with all of his clothes, though there weren’t many to speak of in the first place, since everything in his wardrobe consisted of either shoplifted or hand-me-down clothes from former foster homes. Only a few band tees, a flannel, a hoodie, his jacket and two pairs of jeans, all black or similarly monotone. He doesn’t bother brushing his hair much- maybe the haggard look will work to his advantage in looking the part of a distressed kidnapping victim.</p><p>Just before Frank leaves the bathroom, his hand on the knob, he stills. Richard wasn’t paying him any mind before he broke his line of sight. Maybe he’d gotten bored of hearing some guy piss three feet away from him- but with how much of a creep he already knows him to be, that seems unlikely. He fleetingly wonders what’s changed, and a rare, hopeful voice in his head ponders if this is the ‘trust’ Richard had proposed. </p><p>Is the fucker actually stupid enough to believe he won’t take the first available opportunity he has to either throttle him or run for it? Hell, he would’ve killed him in his sleep by now if the guy actually slept enough and forgot to tie him up again (with how little he rests and how wound-up he acts, Frank’s pretty sure the dude’s tweaking).</p><p>He can use that trust to his advantage. He’s done it countless times before with others, personal benefit always in mind. It won’t be that hard. He quiets his breathing and listens. The TV is still on. If he can rush for the door in time, he might make it to the hallway.</p><p>Frank steels himself with a self-assured smirk and opens the bathroom door- only to be grabbed by his shirt and twisted around so that his back is flush against Richard’s broad chest. The bowie knife is pressed up against his neck, and his arms are held down with a firm bicep. The blade glints white- now that they aren’t obscured by the dark, he can see that it looks clean enough to be brand new were it not for the handle, weathered with age.</p><p>Fuck. <em>Fuck. </em>Was all of that shit a lie just to get his hopes up- play around with all of that bullshit trust crap? Probably wanted him to feel nice and safe right before he slit his throat and bled him out like a pig on the motel carpet- more 'fun' that way. Richard gets to see the credence die out in his eyes at the same time as the light, and he fell for it. <em>Again. </em> </p><p>
  <em>Why’d you have to be such a fucking idiot? You aren’t a God, Frank.</em>
</p><p>The younger man draws in a long, deep breath.</p><p>“Don’t you ever get tired of this shit? You’re acting like a fucking movie villain. You aren’t Kamal Khan, dickhead.”</p><p>“Ooh, deep cut, Frankie! Didn’t take you for a fan of the classics. I’ve always been a Janus man myself.”</p><p>“Really? Not <em>Octopussy?”</em> Rather than the expected stab of retaliation, Richard chuckles. Frank tries to pretend that a shiver doesn’t dash across his spine when he feels the other man’s laugh rumbling in his chest, light and genuine.</p><p>“Funny. I bet Maud Adams really does it for you. Nice cheekbones.” The knife raises to draw lightly across Frank’s face, from the scar on his lip to his creased brow, and back down again. “But this isn’t the time to talk about our favourite Bond villains, kid. We can do that over breakfast, okay? Need to have a little talk first, man to man.” <em>Over breakfast. </em>He still has a chance. “I know you’re thinking about running away from me, Frank.” <em>Well, fucking duh. </em>“I know your instincts are going to tell you to run for the first stupid redneck family you see, beg them to call the cops, play it all up with your messy hair and big doe eyes- but you won’t, will you? Because you’re smart.” The pressure of the knife against his throat lessens as Richard steps back. Frank takes the chance to struggle against the hold. He’s promptly grabbed by the shoulders and spun around to look Richard in the eyes. They’re alight, and there’s a small quirk in his grin as he looks Frank up and down, slow enough to make said man’s eyes drop to the carpet. If he’s content with his state of dress, he doesn’t show it.</p><p>“You’re going to behave, and you’re going to sit nice and pretty and eat your pancakes. Not because I’m going to hurt you if you decide to squeal, but because deep down, you know that nobody’s going to give a shit if you live or die.” </p><p>Frank tries to gather a retort for that, grasping for something to disprove the objective truth- he can’t find the words fast enough. Richard continues. </p><p>“You still look like a strung-out junkie that just crawled out of a dumpster behind a Salvation Army. Not only are they not going to believe you, but even if they did-” The knife is brought back up to his neck. The tip lingers in the dip of his collarbone. “You think the cops are going to do shit?” That last bit crushes his chest like a beer can. He knows it’s true, and that admission weighs heavy on his tongue, fetid and rotten and vying for a lie to cling to instead. He was barely skimming by in the foster system. His lips curl downward, and he frees one of his arms with a firm shake just to curl it into a dormant fist.</p><p>“Has anyone ever told you that you’re a real goddamn psycho, Rich?”</p><p>“No, actually.” His reply sounds far more genuine than it needed to. “And, to be perfectly clear- if you do try to run off and blab to the first person who will listen- I’m very quick with a knife, Frank.”</p><hr/><p>As soon as they step outside, Frank is reminded that even Canada’s weak excuse for summer is still enough to make him sweat. It drips down his back which does nothing but make him feel stuffy and uncomfortable. Even as a kid he’d been averse to the heat, always cranking the AC in his foster parent’s houses and getting his ass beat for it because it cost a fuck-ton if they didn’t catch it in time.</p><p>Richard, in stark contrast, is wearing a fucking jacket overtop his button-down shirt, brown on black. He doesn’t look like he’s struggling with the heat. If anything he seems <em>cold, </em>tightening his layers around him like a cocoon when he isn’t gripping his arm around Frank’s shoulders. There’s something about the action that’s mildly endearing, and the thought almost makes Frank want to vomit- he covers it up with absent musing. The Ghostface murders started in Florida, right? It was big news back then and made international news, but a man so obsessed with a serial killer likely has some other connection with him, like a shared home-state. Now that he thinks about it, whenever Richard talks, there’s a very slight twang to his voice that Frank recognizes as plainly not Canadian- but, like the rest of him, it’s otherwise indistinguishable and entirely nondescript.</p><p>Richard stops them both and squeezes his shoulders. Frank huffs and turns his attention back to the present. The diner’s a small grey brick in the centre of nothingness and a parking lot with four trucks stalled side-by-side near the entrance. The sign in the glass doorway reads <em>Blackfoot Truckstop Diner </em>in bold white lettering, a maple-leaf flanking it on either end. By the time they’re inside Frank is instantly soothed by a waft of cool air that casts across his forehead. </p><p>The walls are an ugly Pepto-Bismol pink, and the floors are made up of chipped plastic tile. Frank can see a man and a woman at the bar-seats, talking over a pot of coffee, and in the far back by the window is a pretty brunette woman in a low-cut yellow top. Frank gives her chest an appreciative glance before Richard interrupts. </p><p>“You don’t do well with heat, do you?” The older man says, a teasing lilt to his tone. Frank narrows his eyes and shrugs.</p><p>“Why do you care?”</p><p>“I don’t. Just making a comment. You don’t need to be so rude all the time, Frankie. Didn’t your mother ever teach you manners?” Frank readies a reply, nails digging into his palms, only for Richard to drop their standoff in the blink of an eye as a waitress approaches, menus held tight to her chest.</p><p>Richard’s entire aura seems to shift in an instant- he regards the woman with a cheery smile that somehow isn’t laced with its usual erraticism. She smiles back, exasperating her crows-feet. It’s apparently infectious. </p><p>“For two?” She asks, and Frank feels his mouth grow dry as bone. He should say something. <em>Anything. </em>Fuck, he should be kicking and screaming and trying to reach for the closest sharp object so he can stab Richard in the jugular, but he isn’t- he doesn’t.</p><p>Richard nods and they follow behind the waitress. She leads them to a booth a few feet away from the couple, her heels clicking against plastic tile. The woman sets down two menus and promises them a coffee pot, all while making polite small-talk with Richard, who responds to her with equally prosaic kindness. He comments on the weather, she comments on his jacket, he says he doesn’t mind the heat and she nods. Frank doesn’t know if the bile growing in his throat is due to frustration toward his own inaction or disgust at how eerily unremarkable the whole interaction is- how different Richard looks when he smiles like that. Empty and practiced, the perfect tableau of normalcy. It’s a little… sad, in comparison to Richard’s usual cadence. Like a deflated balloon.</p><p>He shakes the thought as the waitress walks away, looking down at the breakfast menu. His hands fidget with a sugar packet, tearing it open along the side with his fingernails. He isn’t hungry, suddenly. He assumes that Richard will order for him anyway since his only request was for Frank to keep his trap shut. He finds himself looking at Richard’s scar again. It’s somehow less noticeable in the daytime, a subtle lift of ivory against his pale skin. With less contrast, the sun is soft against his face, highlighting the growing scruff on his chin and the perpetually sleepy dips under his eyes. Then, his gaze moves past Richard, and back toward the woman at the corner booth behind them. She’s sipping at her coffee with one hand and sketching something on a napkin with the other… It’s a familiar sight, and his stomach drops with melancholy.</p><p>“She's good looking,” Richard says. Frank’s attention is brought back to the forefront, and the girl falls out of focus.</p><p>“Don’t tell me you’re thinking of trying to keep her tied up in a motel room too.” The older man laughs, flipping through the pages of his menu.</p><p>“I wouldn’t dream of it, Frankie. You’re the only one for me.” Frank’s eyes harden. “You know, she forgot to feed her cat today. Poor thing’s probably starving, and here she is, third morning in a row drinking decaf, all on her lonesome... Isn’t that a little sad? I honestly think she would appreciate the company.” His casual interpretation of some random chick’s daily routine takes Frank off guard, to say the least.</p><p>“How the fuck did you-” He’s cut off when the waitress, Mindy from her nametag now uncovered by a stack of menus, returns with their coffee. Frank snaps his mouth closed and shifts in place, trying to take the weight off of his thighs. With jeans on, the bandages feel like they’re rubbing against his skin enough to chafe- tiny pinpricks run across his legs and up to his hips. She sets the pot on the table along with two mugs, the silhouette of a moose on one and a beaver on the other. </p><p>“Have you decided on what you want, boys?” She asks, taking a pen out from behind her ear. Richard prattles off about blueberry jam and eggs sunny-side-up while Frank does nothing but stare at the girl behind them again. She doesn’t glance up, thankfully, fully entranced by whatever she’s doodling. The waitress walks off again and Richard pours his coffee into the beaver mug. He doesn’t add cream or sugar- just lets it sit and cool pitch black.</p><p>“What were you saying, Frank?” Frank’s voice drops to a whisper-yell, leaning forward overtop the steaming coffee pot.</p><p>“How the <em>fuck </em>did you know that?” Richard smiles and leans back. He holds his mug in both hands, nails quietly tapping against the ceramic.</p><p>“Lucky guess?”</p><p>“That wasn’t a lucky guess, Rich, and I know you’re not a damn psychic.” <em>More like a damn psycho. </em>“What? You stalking her or something?” Frank sounds less outraged like any normal person would be, and more curious. He can’t help it. That strange attraction returns as Richard leans forward once again- always moving, always fluid, always slinky like a wildcat- and looks him right in the eyes. The steam rises thick along with beams of drifting dust in the midmorning sun. He feels little tugs in his gut, knots forming and loosening all at once- if this were any other situation he would call them butterflies.</p><p>“You could say that. I prefer the term preparing.”</p><p><em>“Preparing?</em> For what?”</p><p>“You know the answer to that, Frank.” He does, and at the same time, he doesn’t. It’s evident that Richard’s planning to fucking gut her- maybe make up for his flub with him, or maybe do it right this time, in a way the Ghostface killer would be proud of. Cute girl like her who spends her days alone at a diner sketching and drinking coffee in smalltown Alberta? It’s no Seattle, but the world would still eat that shit up and spit it right back out.</p><p>“Let’s say I do. How do you plan on… doing what you plan on doing? She’s not exactly a twenty-year-old vagrant hitchhiking across Alberta.” The question is amusing to Richard, apparently. He brings his black coffee to his lips and takes a sip. </p><p>“You’ll see. If you play your cards right.” Frank has no snarky response to that.</p><p>Mindy comes back with their food. Pancakes for Frank, just as promised, drowned in blueberry syrup, and eggs and toast for Richard, who thanks her as she leaves. They eat in silence. Frank’s appetite hasn’t returned. He pushes his food around his plate while Richard eats his, quite pleased with his admission of proposed murder.</p><p>The girl passes by them as Frank takes a slow bite of a pancake chunk. She’s wearing tiny denim shorts, and her toffee-brown hair reaches her waist. She smiles at them vaguely as she leaves, and Frank doesn’t stop himself from grinning back like he would with any other pretty girl who caught his eye. Richard smiles too, but again- it doesn’t reach his eyes.</p><p>“You aren’t going to warn her?” Richard says. His cutlery is on his plate along with the remnants of his meal. Frank sets his down too, leaning back and crossing his arms.</p><p>“I remember you saying something about blabbering and tongue-cut-offing. I guessed that warnings weren’t exactly exempt.”</p><p>“I think it’s more than that...” <em>Who was the big man you took down, Frankie? How did it feel to kill? </em>Frank scowls at him pointedly, before standing up and walking to the end of the diner where the girl had previously sat. Richard follows behind him, looping his fingers around Frank’s wrist. He tries shaking it off, but the hand stays put, just like a shackle. The napkin is still on the table, along with her tip and her empty mug. Frank moves to grab the five-dollar bill and pocket it- Richard yanks him back.</p><p>“Frank…”</p><p>“It’s five fucking bucks, man. She won't miss it.” He doesn’t reach for it again, though.</p><p>Instead, his attention is drawn to the napkin, which isn't a napkin. It's a piece of sketch paper. Expensive looking, too.</p><p>A portrait of a boy with soft features and a far-off look is scribbled between the crinkles. He picks it up and lifts it closer to his face.</p><p>It’s… him. His hair is mussed and sticking out at all sides, and the scars across the bridge of his nose and the right side of his lip are etched with detail. However, there’s a softness to it that Frank barely recognizes, in his eyes and in his expression. It’s a blurry approximation drawn by someone who’d only seen him in passing from ten feet away. He stares at it, tilts it to the side, and thinks. Burns. While his heart should feel sad, it only grows hot with a distant sense of rancour, and not toward the man who stands behind him.</p><p>He hears Richard hum.</p><p>“Your eyes look a little off.” Frank tries not to crumple it in his hand. Instead, he puts it back face-down on the table and turns around. </p><p>*</p><p>Frank knocks on Julie Kostenko’s door three times and rings the doorbell twice. A cicada sings in the distance, and the sun sets overtop the overarching mountain that surrounds their desolate little town. Her house is in the nicer part of Ormond, which isn’t saying a lot- it’s no white picket fence or three-story colonial, but it’s a distant cry from Clive’s beat-down bungalow that resides closer toward the edge of town.</p><p>He hears a lock jingle on the other side and shoves his hands further into his varsity jacket pockets, preparing himself before she opens the door.</p><p>Neither Julie nor Frank are natural blondes. They learned that the first time they, know you- she’d chuckled, sat between his legs, ran a hand through his freshly-dyed hair while her other danced across his thigh. He looked at her, enthralled- and maybe a little drunk.</p><p>The music from downstairs had turned into a distant vibration underneath her queen-sized mattress- as had the talking. The collective voices of the entirety of Fairview’s senior year dulled into a monotonous current. Her breath smelled like the fancy whiskey they’d stolen from her dad’s liquor cabinet, and when she leaned forward and whispered in his ear that the carpet didn’t really match the drapes, he flushed red and his breath hitched.</p><p>Now it hitched for a different reason. Julie stands before him, hair pulled back into a loose ponytail laid flat across her flannel. Her roots are showing more than his are- blue-black splits through honey blonde. She looks gorgeous, like she always does, even as she glares and uses her extra two inches to bear down on him.</p><p>“What is it, Frank?”</p><p>“I need to talk to you about something.” Not even a hello. He feels a small bubble of annoyance in his chest at that, but the moment she crosses her arms and balances her weight to one hip it fades.</p><p>“Is it something we can talk about on the porch, or do you wanna come inside?”</p><p>“We can stay out here.” He doesn’t feel like awkwardly greeting her dad. Judging by the car in their driveway, he’s probably home.</p><p>While he and Julie were dating they were always at one another’s throats, but now that they’re ‘just friends’, Mr. Kostenko’s grudge (mostly exasperated by Frank, admittedly) has dulled down to embers. He’s still just as bad an influence- he just… isn’t over as much. If at all.</p><p>“Well?” She sounds like she wants to be talking to anyone but him.</p><p>“I’m leaving." She gives him a look. "Just until I figure shit out. Clive’s booting me.”</p><p>“... You’re kidding.” He looks up sharply.</p><p>“Yeah! It’s fucked up, right? He won’t even-”</p><p>“That’s not what I’m talking about.” Julie’s biting her lip. She’s wearing lipgloss, and it’s stuck to her teeth. “You’re just up and leaving? What happened to <em> all </em> of us getting out of Ormond?” He looks at the sidewalk.</p><p>“Not <em>forever, </em>Jules. I just said that. I’ll be back before the year’s over. I just have shit to do, people to see, y’know?” She takes a step toward him, bare feet on cool, early-morning June pavement. His gaze draws back up to meet hers.</p><p>“What happens if we aren’t here when you come back?” He scoffs, visibly. Maybe he needs to drill it into her head again. Without him, they’re just a couple of small-town kids who think that the supermarket they were thinking of building in the middle of town a year ago (the plans for which ultimately fell through) is the pinnacle of opulence.</p><p>“What are you on about? You really think you can get out of this place without me?” She’s nearly nose-to-nose with him now- the tips of her ears and the highlights of her cheekbones are tinged red.</p><p>“What is it you want, exactly? For us to stay here indefinitely until you ride back into town to lift us up out of the trash-heap?” He doesn’t have a response to that. He opens his mouth, closes it again- she notes his floundering with a huff. “We aren’t helpless. Maybe we thought we were when we were younger. But that shit doesn’t last forever.”</p><p>“So’s that all you think of me? A confidence booster?" He says.</p><p>Her hands ball into dormant fists. “You’re not a god, Frank. You’re a kid who thinks he’s smarter than everyone else when in reality, he’s a faux-philosophical dumbass.” Julie says, simmering. Her nostrils are flaring and her freckles are stark against her skin. “Newsflash, Morrison- we’re not going to stick around forever. Susie’s going to AU come September, Joey’s working at Bobbie's... and I…” She pauses and looks him dead in the eyes. Brown meets near-black. Her shoulders are squared and she looks as strong as she’s always been- immovable, adamantine Julie. <em> His girl, who’s always going to be his girl, even when sometimes she isn’t his girl, who isn’t his girl anymore.  </em></p><p>Something lingers on her features- creeps across her visage with dark umbrage, clandestine and scarlet-shaded, like a painting of some artist’s secret hell. He can imagine her covered in blood. He can imagine her with her knife to his throat. It makes him want to get on his knees and pray to her like he used to pray with his mother in church, tiny knees on a wooden bench. Julie smiles.</p><p>“I have my own plans. If you want to leave, you can leave. But just know that when you come back, we won’t be here to greet you at the door.” Her voice drops to a near-whisper. “All you’ll see is snow, and all you’ll have is that nobody janitor buried in it.” </p><p>She shuts the door in his face with a resounding slam.</p><p>As he heads down the driveway, he takes his house keys out of his pocket and extends his arm as he passes Mr. Kostenko’s Porsche.</p><p>He drags two of his keys against the metal, leaving a series of long white grooves from the hood to the back door with an audible, tearing scratch.</p><p>“Fuck you too. Prissy bitch.”</p><hr/><p>“Why didn’t you warn her, Frank?”</p><p>He’s at an odd impasse. They’re back at the motel room, and Frank isn’t chained to the bedpost. Instead, he’s sat with his legs splayed over Richard’s once again, falling into their usual daily routine of medical care. The older man seems perfectly relaxed as he finishes re-wrapping Frank’s thigh.</p><p>He and Richard walked back together in comfortable silence. Richard still had his hand wrapped around Frank’s wrist, but if he really wanted to, he could’ve easily shaken it off and ran for the nearest storefront or made some sort of scene in the middle of the parking lot. They seemed to have an unspoken, mutual understanding that Frank barely understands- however, something tells him that Richard has all of his ducks in a row. </p><p>It isn’t that he’s given up on fighting- it’s more like he doesn’t feel the need to. Richard’s shown no indication of wanting to kick his ass again or an urge to slice the rest of his skin off. If anything, he just seems happy to have someone to talk to, and even if those conversations border on the certifiable, Frank’s momentarily willing to oblige.</p><p>“I already told you why,” Frank replies, leaning back on his hands. The bed’s a lot more comfortable now that he doesn’t have a weight tugging at his wrist.</p><p>“That ham-handed deflection wasn’t exactly a reason; more of an excuse.” Richard swings his legs over the side of the bed, grabbing his notebook.</p><p>That damn notebook. Frank wants to know what he’s always scribbling in there when his attention is turned toward the news; probably missives from the Ghostface Killer’s murders that he plans to utilize with his own.</p><p><em> Middle of the night; check. Cut the phone lines; check. Pose the body; check. Halloween costume? </em>... Richard’s sing-song tone lulls as he stands and turns back, one knee on the mattress and free hand on Frank’s hip. He doesn’t shift away from it this time- just sits there, expecting a dramatic follow-up. He isn’t disappointed. Richard angles his head downward, voice dropping to a lecherous pitch. “Were you too busy looking at her tits?”</p><p>Frank wrinkles his nose. Sure, she was hot, but not hot enough to melt his brain out his ears. Maybe he’d make out with her at a party or something and forget her name the next day- nothing more than that.</p><p>“If that’s what you want to believe, then sure,” Frank says. Richard takes his hand away and lifts it to his chest. He gives Frank a scandalized look as if he wasn’t the one to suggest the idea in the first place. The man likes to be in control even in ‘casual’ conversation- that much is evident.</p><p>“Well, if that’s the case… Veronica isn’t just a piece of meat, Frank.” Richard sounds mawkish as he defends her, features morphing with theatrical accuracy. If this were any other life, Frank would think he was playing to a stage.</p><p>
  <em> Veronica. </em>
</p><p>She looked like a Veronica. “She was top of her class- honour roll, valedictorian, the whole nine yards. There’s a brain behind those tits.” He sits back down on the bed, directly across from Frank, legs crossed. He lays his notebook on his legs and uncaps his pen with his teeth.</p><p>“And you know that... how?” Frank asks, legitimately curious. A little part of him feels sick, talking about someone like this- someone whose name he knows now, as opposed to some faceless man in the heat of the moment who didn’t make noise other than a grunt and a scream before he was full of knife wounds. The majority of him, however, is listening intently. He cants his head and raises a brow. Richard looks up at him again, a maniacal grin on his lips.</p><p>“Preparation.”</p><p>“You keep saying that, but I’m pretty fucking sure that watching her forget to feed her stupid cat isn’t enough for you to know if someone’s going to miss her.” The older man chuckles.</p><p>“Oh, people are going to miss her, Frankie. That’s the point. Smart, pretty girl with rich, loving parents… they help her pay for that house, you know. Twenty-minute drive in a 1991 Chevy from the Blackfoot Truckstop Diner, big grey Colonial… she probably gets lonely up there. Too many rooms for a single woman and her cat.” If he didn’t know better, he’d expect Richard to start drooling.</p><p>Frank doesn’t give a shit if her family’s loaded (though the idea of killing some rich bitch who likes to play tortured artist in small-town diners does have some sort of ironic appeal- he supposes that’s the point) or if her favourite colour is yellow- he just wants Richard to look at him.</p><p>He doesn’t know why, and he can’t keep blaming it on his concussion. He feels a connection to Richard that he can only describe as… unconstrained. Which is ironic, considering the man had him chained to a bedpost just this morning. It’s that look in his eyes whenever his features get dark- whenever his voice drops. Whenever his smile reaches his eyes and flickers with the vestiges of what could have been, had his Legion not fizzled and died out, a spent sparkler.</p><p>Or maybe he’s just fucked up beyond repair, and too disillusioned to do anything about it. Frank looks to the window. Richard opened the blinds when they’d walked in as if to signify some sort of cathartic release.</p><p>There isn’t much to see in terms of a view- the parking lot, the diner across the street. A thicket around the corner, shrouded by pine. The highway on a distant overpass. He wants to see that look in Richard’s eyes again- he wants it to heat him up until he melts like snow. He swells all the ire he feels into his tongue and spits it out like venom.</p><p>“It sounds like you want to fuck her.” He says. Richard’s still focused on his journal.</p><p>“I guess you could say something like that.” He grinds his teeth in annoyance. Now that the attention is away from him, Frank can only covet it- he wants to rip it from the man like it’s physically tangible. Is he… <em> jealous? </em> Of a dead girl walking? Sure, Frank’s a bit of an attention whore, but would he really stoop that low just because he’s been thrown into the gutter again? … Yes, he would.</p><p>He knows it’s all intentional, and that Richard’s fucking with him again. Forcing him to bank on trust, or <em> hope, </em>or whatever the fuck it was that made Frank think this would be easy. If that’s the case, he can’t bring himself to care.</p><p>Silence. He thinks about a way to change the topic of conversation- something Richard will recuperate. <em> Anything </em>other than the thought of Richard's eyes on him and him alone. He tries to choose his next words carefully, but again- he fucks it. <em> Why’d you have to be such an idi- </em> Shut up. Please.</p><p>“Do you think the Ghostface Killer is… impotent? Like, he can’t fuck?” All the time in the world seems to pause the moment those words leave his lips. Richard’s hand stills its scrawling, gripped unnaturally tight around his pen. He finally peers up at Frank and it’s not a glimpse at the fire he was hoping for- in fact, it’s anything but. It’s raw and bitter and hollow, and Frank figures that this is the man’s truly ‘offended’ face, not the maudlin act he was putting on earlier.</p><p>The younger man quickly backtracks. “I don’t think that, for the record. It sounds like a really fucking stupid reason to go around killing people, right? Like, you can’t get it up so you stab people to simulate… penetration, or whatever.” He remembers reading that somewhere, in one of Julie’s clipped articles, maybe. It stuck with him somehow; presumably, because it sounded so absurd.</p><p>That seems to sate Richard for now. His features settle into nonchalance like Frank hadn’t just implied that he’d thought his idol’s dick didn’t work.</p><p>“You know quite a bit about serial killers.” Frank shrugs. It’s true. He’s always been into the macabre things real life has to offer- unsolved mysteries, conspiracy, true crime. The kind of shit they don’t teach you in high school. </p><p>"Maybe. But I'm not a Ghostface groupie like you are. <em> You're </em> the one always talking about him.” Frank shifts around for the first time, bringing his legs up to his chest and stretching his arms out above his head. It’s a position he couldn’t get into without hurting himself before, and he’s once again thankful for the freedom. “My theory is that you wanted to kill me to impress him. Place something in the classifieds, like a reverse Lonely Hearts killer." Richard doesn’t seem dazzled by his speculation. He taps his pen against his chin, fixing Frank with a doubtful expression.</p><p>“My job is to follow the stories and write about him, and there's a lot to write about. The Ghostface is a nationally wanted criminal.”</p><p>“So you’re, what… a true-crime novelist?” That explains why he’s always writing, but opens up a whole other list of questions that he likely won’t get the answers to anytime soon. “Were you just getting <em>really</em> into the headspace when you smashed my fucking head against the dashboard? What about when you tied me to a tree and stabbed me seven times in the legs?” Richard sighs.</p><p>“Come on, Frankie. That’s all in the past now.” He says. <em> Agree to disagree. </em> “And if I’d wanted to impress him, sloppily killing some homeless kid in the woods wouldn’t even make him raise an eyebrow. Now, killing pretty Veronica. <em> That </em> would get me noticed.” </p><p>“So that’s your plan? Kill her to get your serial killer crush to answer your personal ad?” <em> Lonesome twenty-something white male, single and ready to mingle with any similarly inclined masked serial killers. </em>“Having someone tied up in your motel room kind of throws a wrench in it.” Frank retorts. Richard gives him a sly grin, catlike and knowing.</p><p>“I never said I wanted to do it alone. You think it was a happy little coincidence, me deciding to bring you along for breakfast? I wanted to see if you saw what I did- Veronica’s potential. <em> Your </em> potential. And you aren’t exactly tied up anymore, are you?” Frank pinches his lips together and crosses his arms.</p><p>The impasse returns. Part of him is rapacious and vying. It wants to see that light in Richard’s eyes again, that little spark of iniquity. It wants him to hold a knife to his throat, to call him <em>pretty boy</em> like Julie would do with their flirting back-and-forth. The other part of him doesn’t want to give in that easily- it feels disgusted that he’s willing to stoop so low for a little attention.</p><p>“The point is that I was. I’m not fucking killing anybody-” Frank says, cutting each word with his teeth,</p><p>"What happened to that <em> ‘big guy back home’, </em>Frank? Did you forget all about him? Or was that all posturing?” The callback is cumbersome and intentionally lilted. “It was just a precaution- I've told you already. I couldn't have you running off and blabbing to anyone that would listen."</p><p>“You said something about earning your trust. I guess that means I made the cut," Frank says flatly.  “I could just… leave. At any point. And you won’t stop me?” Richard chuffs, closing his notebook pointedly.</p><p>“I never said that. I just know you won’t leave, Frank. You have nowhere else to go." </p><hr/><p>It’s early the next morning when Richard drops Frank’s duffle bag onto his chest. He startles with a huff, sitting up in bed, causing the bag to tumble down onto his lap with a hefty thump.</p><p>“What the fuck?” Frank says tersely. </p><p>“Pack it up.” Richard replies, far more awake and far less irritable than himself. </p><p>Frank rubs at eyes with the edges of his worn hoodie sleeve. He remembers falling asleep in a t-shirt and waking up to change into something warmer.</p><p>It’d gotten cold again during the night, and the damn handcuffs were off, so he’d taken the chance to piss as a free man and dig through the bag that’s currently on his legs.</p><p>Unfortunately, his knife was nowhere to be found; neither was his walkman, his smokes, his lighter, or the map he’d taken to toting around since he’d picked it up at a gas station an hour’s drive from Ormond.</p><p>Just his clothes and the other essentials he’d shoved in his pack before Clive decided he’d grown drunkenly tired of his stalling- a toothbrush and a stick of antiperspirant, along with some sentimental shit.</p><p>After padding across the carpet to dig through his duffle bag, tossed into a corner and somewhat deflated, he’d gruffly reminded himself that if he <em>really </em>wanted to, he could just strangle Richard in his sleep. He soon found that would be harder than anticipated once he grabbed his hoodie, pulled it on and climbed back onto the bed. </p><p>The blinds were open, exposing strikes of pale moonlight edged by the rustling of black-tipped trees, and Richard wasn’t sleeping. Rather, he was laying on his side, chin propped on the heel of his palm, watching Frank in the dark. He looked owlish and sinister- his dark hair was mussed and his eye-bags looked like dark, pitted bruises. His grey eyes weren’t wild but they were searching.</p><p>Frank did nothing save stare right back, far less alert in his half-asleep state.</p><p>Frank remembers curling up facing the wall and promptly passing back out again as if he hadn’t seen that display of sheer psychotic behaviour at all.</p><p>And now he knows it’d actually happened. He has to admit that last night was pretty par for the course in terms of what he should be coming to expect from his 'ex' captor. He’s currently planning to murder a woman for fuck’s sake; some… staring, or whatever the <em>hell </em>that was, is probably just another one of his quirks (at least it wasn’t the spooning. <em> At least that felt warm </em>).</p><p>He brings himself back to the present, moving the bag onto the bed beside him.</p><p>“Where are we going?" He asks. There isn’t exactly much for him to pack, so he zips the duffle bag up instead after taking a peek inside. His eyes meet nothing but clothes and deodorant. He notes that his stuff doesn’t smell like shit and dirt anymore; in fact, it’s all laundered and folded neatly into small piles made by someone used to living out of a suitcase.</p><p>“Not too far from here. Staying in one place for too long is bad for your health.” Richard responds blithely in his small-talk tone. “We can stop somewhere for an early breakfast if you’re hungry.” He grabs his notebook off of the nightstand and tucks it into the side of one of his bags.</p><p>Frank hadn’t noticed that there were two before last night, one always hidden on the far side of the bed and the other tucked in the corner with his own. He would have searched them as well if they didn’t have those shitty combination locks. He’d decided that Richard would be understandably upset if he decided to visibly brute force them open, and now he’s glad he didn’t, considering the guy was awake and <em>watching</em> <em>him</em> the whole fucking time.</p><p>Frank stands to his feet and throws the bag over his shoulder. He considers his next words, biting his lip and trying to gauge the older man’s emotional state. He’s acting cheery, but that could easily turn on a dime. He can’t pinpoint it but decides to try his luck anyway.</p><p>"I don't think you heard me properly, Rich. I made sure to highlight <em>we. </em>Why do you still want me around?" Despite his question sounding like the same emotional masturbation that Susie would whimper off in a fit of anxiety, his tone is solid and measured. Richard continues his packing, even taking his time to strip the bed and wad the sheets up on top of the dense mattress. </p><p>"I mean, where are you supposed to go?" Richard replies. He looks at Frank with furrowed brows and pursed lips, mirroring sympathy. "Do you really want to risk being kidnapped by a different psycho, out on the street by yourself, hitchhiking and carjacking your way back to the ‘big city’? You're lucky that you're still alive." He cants his head. “Besides, I told you why. You have potential.”</p><p>"Aw, that's sweet. You think I'm psycho bait?" Frank says, breathing through his nose. He pointedly ignores the ‘potential’ comment- there’s too much baggage to unpack there this early in the morning. “I can handle myself. I’m not a fucking baby. You can’t just coddle me, or dress me, or tote me around like I’m gonna run into traffic the second you take your eyes off of me. I’m a grown man.” Richard switches his faux-compassion back to a look of impassiveness.</p><p>“A baby? No.” He grabs both of his bags in one hand and holds the room keys in the other. Considering the line of conversation, Frank finds it odd when he has to walk across the room and slip his shoes on, also washed and dried back to their near-original colour of grey from ruddy brown. He stands next to the door and crosses his arms, not bothering to open it out of some feeling of leftover defiance. “I think you're an idiot that trusted too easily because you were tired and hungry…” Richard’s voice trails.</p><p>“I’m not an idiot either! You ever try backpacking across Alberta without a license? It’s one ride out of the mountains before you get dropped right back into a different over-glorified pile of shit. You’re-” Frank cuts himself off when Richard, once again, invades his personal space, slotting himself between Frank and the door. He manages to somehow encompass the younger man’s entire field of view, a growing shadow of pale features and tired eyes that stretches across his vision and plants itself in the centre, the star of a one-man show. Frank shuts his trap and grits his teeth. Cheap alcohol and imitation sandalwood flood his senses. <em> He’s so close. </em></p><p>“It's funny how similar you are to a stray. You’re like a mutt that acts big and tough when he's really just a little pup yapping up at the dog catcher with a slip leash. But that’s part of your charm, isn’t it? You know how to make other people forget that you’re a hundred twenty pounds soaking wet because you hit too hard and too fast for them to get a good look." Frank shoves his hands into his pockets and forces his eyes to look anywhere but up.</p><p>He pushes a scowl across his mien- lets his nose wrinkle, his shoulders square. “And it works. Usually. But I can see you, Frankie, and I know you want to do more than just bite. You want to feel more than blood between your teeth… again.” They stay like that for what seems like minutes; Richard staring down at him with a blank visage that simultaneously radiates with warmth and bitter nothing. It’s intoxicating- better than any drug he’s ever tried- better than the sympathetic, gentle touches of Julie, who was soft when she loved, despite her sharp edges and sanguinity. He likes it. Likes the heat, the attention, the jarring tenebrosity. And the understanding, as much as he hates to admit it. He really does. <em> Something’s wrong with you, Morrison. </em></p><p>“And I’m not a fucking dog.” Frank shoulders past Richard sharply (who simply bends back to avoid the blow with insufferable grace) and opens the door his damn self.</p><p>“You’d look cute with a collar though,” The older man calls from behind him, humour in his timbre. Frank hides his flush by deepening his scowl. </p><p>“Pervert.” He replies as if there isn’t something inside him getting off to it all. Richard trails behind him with a self-satisfied smirk. </p><p>The front desk is unattended, just as it was the day before. Frank can’t help but wonder why. It’s not as if there’s anything to do in whichever empty ghost town this is, just as barren and dull as Ormond but somehow even quieter. Maybe tag a wall, or drink... A lot. That’s how he started his life in Ormond, at least. Boozing it up after a long day of skipping classes and quite literally scrawling his mark across the brick walls behind his new school, until that grew tiresome and he began searching for other exciting ways to cement his status as one of Fairview’s best and brightest delinquents. </p><p>As they step through the doors, Frank is met with the scent of early morning dew and a dark sky. It’s too early for the sun to have risen fully, but Frank can see it on the horizon, peeking over in distant shades of peach and salmon. Richard takes the lead, directing them toward his car. It’s just as stock and standard as he remembers, a silver ‘91 Toyota Corolla with a pair of… white and orange Florida plates. That part likely isn’t new- he just hadn’t noticed them before in the dark with rain beating down on him like pellets. Richard pops the trunk and loads his bags in, stepping aside so that Frank can do the same. He does so haphazardly, tossing his duffle bag on top of the others before crossing his arms and standing next to the passenger door. Richard doesn’t unlock the car, though. Instead, he pulls the motel room keys from his pocket and curses under his breath. Frank quirks a brow.</p><p>“What?” </p><p>“One second. Don’t hotwire the car while I’m gone.” Frank leans back against the door as Richard begins walking back into the main building with a casual gait, spinning the hotel keys around on his pointer finger. <em> Can’t even hotwire a car that fast anyway, </em>Frank thinks, picking at some grit underneath his nail. </p><p>He stands there for far longer than it would usually take someone to drop off some motel room keys. Frank stands up straight after the first two minutes- taps his foot, scratches at his neck. At the fourth minute he huffs and thinks of walking toward the building to see if Richard managed to get himself caught up in another ‘pleasant conversation’ with the front desk lady, only to stop himself when an opportunity rears its head-</p><p>and, for once, it isn’t to hot-wire the damn car.</p><p>Richard’s trunk is still popped. He looks back to the Rodeway, then back to the car. Rodeway, back to the car. No sign of him. Just early-morning birdsong and the fluttering of a tattered Canadian flag on a pole outside the double doors. He inches toward it and, once sure that he isn’t going to get his throat slit, opens it all the way.</p><p>What he sees is enough to make him want to slam it closed.</p><p>There’s a mask, tucked away at the back, more-or-less squashed behind Frank’s bag and the inner wall of the trunk. It’s a white face stitched to a black mantilla, ghoulish and elongated into a petrified scream. It’s eerily familiar and distinctive- It’s the mask the Ghostface wears in his infamous snuff films and gruesome self-portraits.</p><p><em> Figures, </em>Frank thinks, reaching forward into the trunk to pick it up. If Richard’s going to try and kill like The Ghostface, he might as well dress the part. As he grabs the mask by the hood and pulls it free to get a closer look, a soft clattering sounds at his feet. He tosses the mask back into the trunk and bends down to pick up whatever had been dropped.</p><p>On the ground, face-up, are a pair of driver’s licenses. They both show the same man in the photo ID; a man who could pass for no younger than twenty and no older than thirty-five, with dark, cropped hair and pale grey eyes.</p><p>One is for Jed Matthew Olsen from Florida, and the other for Danny Edward Johnson from Utah.</p><p>Well, shit. Richard probably isn’t a <em> Richard, </em> is he? Probably isn’t Jed Matthew or Danny Edward either. The implication of Richard- Jed- Danny- <em> whoever </em>having a couple of fake identities laying around in his car is, once again, far too much to unpack before the sun has even risen.</p><p>Considering what the man gets up to in his free time, he can’t imagine him having a rap sheet any shorter than Frank’s own, so it must come in handy whenever he needs to… what is it you can use a fake license for again other than buying booze or getting into clubs?</p><p>He looks between them for far too long. The photo IDs look as if they were taken a few years apart, but Richard-Jed-Danny looks just as agelessly benign from one to the other. Fewer eye-bags on Danny, though- and somehow Jed has decided to forgo the forehead scar.</p><p>Frank sucks in a breath before standing up and tucking the licenses back into the mask’s mantilla. He shoves it back between his bag and the trunk’s wall and grips his fists tight. He isn’t a stranger to fake IDs. He’d had a couple made for both himself and the Legion back before he’d turned nineteen. But there’s something unnerving about a grown man having two of them in the back of his Toyota inside of an imitation serial killer’s mask. Maybe it’s just the conjunction between premeditating a murder and giving your captive a fake name while he’s chained to your motel room’s bedpost.</p><p>Then again, there’s something comforting about Richard-Jed-Danny not giving him his real name, as if a sense of anonymity is the last thing between him and the man’s bowie knife in the base of his skull. So why does he feel as if he’d just poured a bunch of gasoline in his lap and started playing with matches?</p><p>“Good! You and the car are still here.”</p><p>Frank nearly jumps out of his skin when Richard’s voice sounds from directly behind him, just inches away from his ear. He turns around and quickly grasps the top of the trunk for purchase. </p><p>“Jesus fucking Christ!” He yelps, feeling his face grow white as The Ghostface’s mask. Richard only smiles.</p><p>“Just me. Ready to head out or did you forget something too? You hungry?” Frank can only find the strength to shake his head with a thinly stretched frown.</p><p>"Thirsty?" Another shake.</p><p>“Alright then. Gentlemen first,” Richard says. With thespian flare, he opens the passenger side door and moves aside. Before Frank can step in himself, Richard forcibly shoves him into the seat by the small of his back. He yelps and lands on his ass with an undignified squawk. The other man chuckles before slamming the door closed, narrowly missing his foot. Richard then cleanly loads into the driver’s seat, fastens his belt, and turns his key in the ignition. His Toyota starts with a hefty grumble.</p><p>Frank glares at him and wedges himself against the window, taking one last look around. The cars surrounding them are few and far in between, dotting the parking lot and surrounding streets like pinpricks in patchwork. As they pull away into the slowly growing morning light, Richard flips on the radio.</p><p>
  <b> <em>Hi, hi, we're your weather girls, Ah-huh, And have we got news for you!</em> </b>
</p><p><b></b> Frank’s eyebrows stitch together with revulsion- his scowl only deepens when Richard begins to cheerily hum along, like a middle-aged mom driving her son to soccer practice.</p><p>“What are you, a chick? Do you have anything that isn’t overproduced girl pop, or are you a fag?” Richard shrugs.</p><p>“Says the pot to the kettle. Change the station if you want. I’m not gonna stop you.” Frank’s lips pull tight against his teeth as he twists the dial. Every other station is static, and those that aren’t are playing shitty country songs or droning early-morning talk shows. <em> Fuck country, fuck whoever the hell Larry Berrio is, and fuck the damn Weather Girls. </em></p><p>“Don’t you have a mixtape or something?”</p><p>“I don’t exactly have a lot of free time to spend making mixtapes, Frank. Besides, I’m not sure you’d appreciate my taste in music if you’re throwing a tantrum over disco.” He gestures to the glove compartment. “Take a look in there. Maybe you’ll get lucky. If not- well, I hope you like Geri Halliwell.” This guy is a fucking lunatic. It’d be less creepy if he just sat in his car and basked in the silence, honestly. A grown man who has to run around in a mask stalking chicks to get his rocks off is harrowing full-stop, but the fact that he probably does it all while listening to Gloria Gaynor kicks the whole thing up to a ten on the nightmare scale.</p><p>Frank brushes his thoughts aside before he pops open the glove compartment. There’s a few pens, a phonebook, a gum wrapper, an open box of bandaids- and, thank Christ above, a cassette tape. Frank grabs it and brings it up close to the blinking lights of the dashboard. <em> RoadTrip Mix, 1997 </em>is written in black sharpie atop a piece of weathered scotch tape. He fiddles with the buttons on the radio before shoving the cassette into the player. A few seconds later, an L7 song resounds through the speakers, and Frank sighs contently. The sounds of harsh guitar and a steady, thrumming drumbeat fill him with tentative ease.</p><p>“I thought you said you like disco.” He says.</p><p>“I do,” Richard replies.</p><p>“<em>Shitlist </em>isn’t exactly disco.”</p><p>“Here’s the thing-” Richard’s eyes don’t leave the road. <b><em>What’s up with what’s going down? In every city and every town?</em></b> “You aren’t the only killer with a penchant for hitchhiking, Frankie. This wasn’t always my car, and we both know my name isn’t Richard Young.” He isn’t lying- Frank can tell. His face is perfectly placid, like it usually is when he's being genuine. Frank looks out the window, out toward the passing grass. The driver’s licenses in the back return to the forefront of his mind.</p><p><em>Is it Jed? Is it Danny? Or are those dead men too?</em> It dawns on him now that Veronica isn’t going to be Richard's <em>first time.</em> He swallows and presses himself deeper into the seat. Nothing's ever been posturing for either of them.</p><p>“It was nice of him to leave that for you, though. Serendipity’s funny like that…” </p><p>He's in a car with a fucking killer.</p><p>The sun rises over the horizon.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Drive Me Wild!</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>here is murder and horny</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><em> Why don’t you run? </em> That’s a good question. </p><p><em> Why don’t you fight back? </em>That’s an even better one. </p><p>A thousand queries run through his mind in three voices which aren’t his own while the steady hiss of running water reverberates through the wall of his and ‘Richard Young’s’ second motel room of the week.</p><p>It’s not the thought of what’ll happen if he tries. He’d already faced the pain head-on and been incapacitated for it- spent seven days as a psychopath’s nursing manakin and has the newly formed scars splayed thick across his thighs to prove it.</p><p>Frank sits on one of the room’s two beds, the one closer to the panelled window with open blinds that allow him to peer out at the vastness of ebon nothing and brick wall. He’d insisted on two beds at check-in, much to Richard’s chagrin, who’d initially tried speaking over him only for the man at the front desk to fix them with a look of contempt and vaguely concealed disgust that Frank’s grown used to seeing not only in southern Alberta but up north in Ormond as well.</p><p>He’d bottled his anger up then and saved it for later, but now it’d simply dissipated into a despondent gloom that hung above his head in the form of a nearly physical cloud. </p><p><em> Why don’t you use that anger now? It’s what you’re good at, fighting tooth and nail, fighting until you don’t have to fight anymore and then punching down just for the hell of it, </em> Joey Fraiser says, tone pitched deep and far too mature for someone who spends his time downing kegs solo if only to prove that he can. Frank imagines grabbing him by the scruff of his hood and yanking him away from whatever portion of his brain serves as a withered conscience. </p><p>Richard’s been in the shower for ten minutes now. Frank’s had plenty of time to make a break for the front desk, get the cops on the phone to tell them that he’s been travelling, half-unwillingly, with a man who’s killed and plans to kill again. But there are several parts of him that are actively working against that plan; one of which being the fact that <em>he’s a killer too.  </em></p><p>He <em>likes </em>being a killer, and not for the multitude of reasons that he’d had lying in wait at the back of his brain since he’d had his first genuine fantasy about going a little further than muggings and assaults.</p><p>Respect, reputation, the cachet of someone who isn’t a teenage delinquent with behavioural issues. Now that he’s actually gone through with it, if unintentionally, the memory of his first and only kill is far more sublime than he’d expected. It’s less like the rush of throwing rocks through storefront windows and more like the rapture of sex, of pleasure, of something rapacious and sacred and eternally his- eternally <em>theirs. </em></p><p>And <em>they </em>hadn’t wanted it.</p><p>Julie had, at first. She sat in front of her flat-screen TV set with Frank watching the news from days one through twenty, waiting patiently for the report of a caretaker’s body being discovered so they could revel in the pestilential fame of taking life viciously from the hands of another.</p><p><em> Four stab wounds from four different blades, killing strike from the bottom of his chin, split right through his tongue. </em>Like the practically legendary Ghostface Killer.</p><p>It never came. Nobody gave a shit about a guy who spent his time mopping up slushie vomit; nobody noticed that he was missing, or they didn’t care. The world most likely assumed that he’d gone onto better places, better things, the dream for everyone caught up in the monotonously bitter current of small-town northern Alberta.</p><p>Not that he was buried in the frozen dirt outside of Mount Ormond’s abandoned ski resort, rotting carcass bloated and full of summer-born maggots.</p><p>That, and nobody’s going to believe him. If the janitor was a nobody, Frank’s a speck of dust in the sand.</p><p>Absently, his eyes wander toward his duffle bag. It’s on Richard’s bed, closer to the door. He stands up and walks over to it, opens it up with a zip and swallows the swelling of breath that builds up in his chest.</p><p>When had his knife gotten back in there? It’s sat atop his folded clothes, clean and polished. It glints in the light from a lamp sat on the conjoined nightstand separating their beds, plastic orange hilt shining bronze. His hand wanders forward, inching slowly, carefully. </p><p>Frank isn’t typically careful. When he does things, he does them with force- with the spirit of a man bigger than himself. Now he feels like he has to be; like he’s walking on glass, and a poorly calculated step could cost him his feet. It’d already cost him his autonomy for a week. </p><p>Frank’s finger is a centimetre away from the blade’s hilt when the bathroom door opens. He hadn’t noticed that the shower stopped.</p><p>“They need to fix the water pressure here. Felt like I was getting pissed on.”</p><p>Richard has nothing but a towel around his waist, body still glistening with hot water and lingering steam from the shower. It tinges his pale skin a washed-out vermeil that mounts from the subtle dip of his lightly toned hips to the slight swell of his chest. </p><p>He isn’t jacked, but he certainly has a nice body, one that Frank has to force himself to look away from as Richard flops down on the bed next to Frank’s bag. He leans back, runs a hand through his damp hair, and Frank can feel himself grow just as red.</p><p>He tries to blame it on the heat radiating from the bathroom, but that only seems to worsen it; thick ardor chokes him and forces him to expel a huff.</p><p>He’d been too distracted by his form to notice before, but Richard has a wicked amount of scars- more scars than Frank. They wind around his torso and presumably extend across his back, crisscrossing whalebone and mauve. The scars between his thighs, the ones that he’d put there himself in a fit of vying- for pain, for a familiar sting, for an anodyne quelling of the rage that still continues to plague him- tingle.</p><p>
  <em> Do you hurt yourself, Frank? </em>
</p><p>Frank isn’t open about his bisexuality, just as he isn’t open about the fact that ‘Frank’ isn’t his legal name. Then came Ormond. The only people who knew were his Legion and Clive, who opted to conveniently forget about it as long as he kept receiving his Liquor Depot cheques from social services. Eventually, that convenience ran out, and… here he is, ogling a serial killer. </p><p>He averts his gaze momentarily and sits on his bed, knife left out in the open right by Richard’s naked form. He crosses his arms and starts absently playing with the zipper on his hoodie, twisting it between his thumb and forefinger.</p><p>“What was that?” <em> Shut up. </em> Frank’s eyes draw back toward Richard, lingering on his chest, the smooth muscle that lines his stomach, the pale skin that’s starting to settle back into matte ivory. He’s very clearly checking him out, and Richard is very clearly enjoying the attention as he settles his shoulders backward for a moment, showing off.</p><p>“Nothing.” He manages to make himself sound rooted, jerking his head off to the side. The floor is suddenly very interesting. “Forget about it.”</p><p>Richard hums before he stands and begins stalking toward him like a panther, each step methodical and measured. He gets right up in Frank's face and leans forward. Once more, he’s all Frank can see; there is no carpet, no window, no hoodie zipper for him to latch onto and distract himself with. Only two broad shoulders and a devilish smirk that shifts across the genial planes of Richard’s face, pearly white teeth peaking through at one corner. Each of his hands is placed beside Frank’s hips, effectively locking him in place.</p><p>“Are you desperate enough to want to fuck a psycho now?” Richard says with a saccharine tone. Frank’s body language doesn’t betray him, but the way his nose scrunches up and his brows furrow do. He can feel his heartbeat in his ears as he looks Richard in the eyes.</p><p>"I didn't say anything. You a schizo too, fag?" <em> Says the pot to the kettle. </em>They both know it’s true- they both know that every time Richard gets this close to him he’s one step closer to unmasking Frank’s carefully constructed veil of acrid pride. With reluctant hauteur, Frank bats one of Richard’s hands away from his side. "If you're horny you can get back in the shower and jack yourself off." The older man shrugs and instead grabs Frank’s wrist, pulling him upward with one fluid motion. Before he knows it he’s being held in a vice-like grip, one hand on his shoulder and the other on his waist. Richard grips his hip underneath his hoodie fervently, tight enough to bruise into little white crescents. Frank glares as he tries to push away, only for Richard to lock him into his body twofold, a python tightening around a mouse.</p><p>“I’m the horny one? I was just getting out of the shower.” He replies with faux-innocence. </p><p>Frank’s breath catches. He glances downward, but can’t keep himself away for long- his eyes wander down to the divot of Danny’s defined collarbone. He’s indecisive, but his words don't match up with his movements. He tentatively puts a hand on Danny's bare leg, edging just below the damp towel. He wants to grab it and rip it away. If he weren’t trying to prove that he’s willing to reject the advances of the same man who’d tried to kill him a week ago, he would. "And I’m desperate? You can't just walk around like that and expect me to cover my eyes like a virgin." He says coolly. </p><p>Richard draws him into his warmth. This time, he doesn’t have a knife to his throat- this time he bites his lip when Richard chuckles and he can feel it in his chest.</p><p>Frank’s not a virgin- far from it. He’s been with men and women in equal measure, but none of them had the effect Richard has on him now. He knows he’s an eager lover, always trying to fight back with dominance, competing against his partners as if fucking is a competition. Julie won as much as she'd lost, and he revelled in his ability to make her moan and cry out in pleasure; liked making her flush different shades of red, sucking on her nipples and biting at her neck as he played with her how he liked.</p><p>Frank wants to do that now; he wants to see how much he can hold his own against a man who obviously has more than one type of body count.</p><p>"I think you look desperate when you keep staring instead of looking away. Tell me if you want to stop, Frankie."</p><p>He should be thinking about this logically. He should be thrashing- he should be fighting back. It’s what a normal person would do, someone who isn’t jaded and inwardly shattered beyond repair. Someone who isn’t the inevitable fucked up result of their society. </p><p>Someone who isn’t Frank.</p><p>He falls to his knees and starts unbuttoning his jeans with clumsy hands. Richard smirks down at him, dripping with sick charm. </p><p>
  <em> Fuck it.  </em>
</p><p>With one final mordent scowl, he pulls the towel away. The man’s half-hard cock is freed with a weighted bounce, and Frank feels his face flush. He hasn’t sucked a dick in ages, and he’s happy to see that Richard isn’t small, but he isn’t huge either. However, unlike the rest of him, it’s slightly bigger than average in both length and girth, cut and pink. </p><p>Frank wants nothing more than to put it in his mouth. He wants to make Richard look at him- only him. He wants him to think solely of Frank Morrison, his fellow killer, as he gives him the blowjob of a fucking lifetime. He puts a hand on each of Richard’s thighs, looking up at him with big brown eyes. </p><p>"I'm not desperate,” Is his last-ditch effort to get the final word in. Richard isn’t having it.</p><p>“You know, when I said you were used to getting into stranger’s cars, I was making a joke.” Richard’s already stroking his length, fisting his dick up to full mast. Frank parts his lips. “I didn’t really think you were this much of a slut.” At that, he forces Frank’s half-open mouth onto his dick, right down to the hilt without a moment's preparation. </p><p>Frank’s nose is pushed into dark pubic hairs with a sickening gurgle. His eyes widen and he grips Richard’s thighs, digging his nails into pale flesh and squeezing with all of his strength. No reaction. <em> What the fuck! </em>He feels the older man’s cock twitch in his throat, and he gurgles again. <em> You’re lucky I don’t have a gag reflex, asshole, </em>he thinks, but even without one there’s only so much a guy can take before he starts choking. </p><p>“You’re so tight around me, Frankie…” He feels a twinge in his middle, right in the pit of his stomach. It flutters down and blooms like florets of oleander, dangerous. Lilts of breathy moans filter through Richard’s voice, deepened and husky with want. He pushes away, spitting. </p><p>“I was gonna give you a blowjob.” Danny gives him a look.</p><p>“What if I don’t want a blowjob?” <em>Hm. </em>

</p>
<p>"Alright... Do it."</p><p>Richard grabs him again- by his hair this time, rather than at the sides of his head. A length of spit drips to his thighs and down between his legs, wet and thick onto his boxers. His doe eyes roll rearward, glancing up as he feels tears well. He has full and complete control. </p><p>“You take it all so well. You’re a whore, aren’t you? You act like a prude right up until someone looks at you sideways and you’re on your fucking knees.” This time, there aren’t any breaks. Only a brutally set pace as he’s pumped up and down, all the while getting dirty talked in a way that would make even Julie blush. </p><p>He doesn’t know how long it’s been by the time he has tears running down his face, half in ecstasy at the attention and half because he can’t help it. Flem and salty precum mingle together at the back of his throat, and he feels Richard’s dick twitch again. Everything grows blurry around him and his hearing is starting to fade- every time he gurgles in time with a stroke, or Richard groans with pleasure, he only hears static.</p><p>“I’m- going to cum in your mouth,” Richard says, “And you’re going to swallow every drop.” He isn’t asking for permission, no matter how honied his timbre sounds. Frank nods his head, humming as best he can. Somehow, with his head full of stars and wracking pressure, this is the best dick he’s ever had. </p><p>A few more drags down to the hilt before he’s held there, stiff and unmoving, making little whining noises. Richard’s dick twitches one last time before a current of cum hits him in the back of the throat, causing him to gag in response. He tries pulling away, and this time, Richard obliges with a content moan.</p><p>Frank hears ringing in his ears. He does as he’s told- swallows it all, every last drop, the thick salty mixture sliding down his throat as he wipes his face of snot and tears and sucks down air like a drowning man. He doesn’t have any words, which is a rarity. Only blown out pupils and a bright red visage that he can see reflected in Richard’s eyes as the man stares down at him with a placaded grin.</p><p>“See? Wasn’t that better than a blowjob?” He says, and Frank knows then that he’s unabashedly conceited.</p><p>“It-” Frank fills his lungs again. His knees are raw against the carpet- at some point, he’d begun digging down as a way to steady himself. He doesn’t even feel the ache in his thighs anymore, only sweet pain mixed with hedonistic pleasure. “It was… okay. I guess.” Richard doesn’t need his dick sucked anymore. </p><p>The older man rolls his eyes and grabs Frank’s wrist once again. He yanks him forward, sending him tumbling onto the bed. Frank lands on his hands and knees. He's about to turn back around to ask what else Richard wants from him other than his <em>throat </em>when, with striking quickness, his jeans and boxers are yanked down around his knees.</p><p>“I’m not going to let you get away with <em>okay. </em> I want to hear you beg.” Now it’s Frank’s turn to roll his eyes.</p><p>“I don’t <em>beg</em>,” He says sharply.</p><p>The position is a little humiliating, so Frank sits up, spreading his thighs wide enough so that his jeans are held up by the tautness. He’s about to turn around when Richard grabs him from behind and draws one of his strong, toned arms across his chest. He cups his ass with his other hand and gropes it tight.</p><p>“You can’t get it back up." The man tsks.</p><p>“Rude.”</p><p>“So you’re gonna… spank me?” Frank can’t help but giggle a bit at that. The guy fucking stabbed him and he thinks that some slapping around is gonna get him to beg? “That’s kinky. First, you wanna play nurse, now you wanna play teacher? I can lay across your lap too if you want.”</p><p>“I’ll do more than spank you if you keep running your mouth.” A hand drags even further downward, settling on Frank’s swollen hole. He’s wet from the attention- he can’t help it. The pain seemed to help too. “I’m going to tease you for as long as it takes, even though I just did all the work. Don’t say I never did anything for you, Frankie.” Two fingers begin drawing languidly around his labia, slow and stately. His face flushes and he bites his tongue. <em> Fuck. </em> </p><p>He wants his fingers inside of him. He wants Richard to finger him- he wants all of the man’s attention to be focused on fucking him with his hands until he cums. <em> But he’s not going to beg. </em></p><p>“I’d never dream of it,” Comes Frank’s response. It doesn’t sound as strong as he wants it to- it’s almost whispered under his breath.</p><p>Richard hums.</p><p>“Good. Now, do you want to be a good whore and ask for my fingers nicely, or am I going to have to leave you like this?” He pulls the smaller man tighter into him from behind, separating his fingers so that two of them spread Frank’s pussy. He stifles a mewl. </p><p>“Bite me.” Probably a poor choice of words. Frank readies for retaliation, some sort of harsh treatment that, once and for all, cements his status as both an attention addicted and masochistic freak… only to get nothing at all.</p><p>Richard slips away from him and lays down naked on the bed, hands behind his head, leaving Frank to sit on his knees with a look of pure confusion.</p><p>"Are you fucked?" He asks, bewildered.</p><p>He doesn't move- just shrugs his shoulders. He isn’t looking at Frank anymore, instead focusing his attention on the back of his eyelids. He knows that Richard doesn’t sleep, so this is obviously just an attempt to get at him… and it’s working. He’s unbearably horny and doesn’t exactly feel up to jacking himself off in front of Richard like he’s being paid to do it. Instead, he lowers himself to sit on his ass. </p><p>“You’re kidding. What are you, ten?” No response. Richard adjusts, wiggling his shoulders like he’s getting ready to take a long nap. “You’re a fucking asshole.” Nothing. “Bitch.” Silence.</p><p>Frank hates being ignored. There’s nothing that pisses him off more. His Legion learned that quickly when joking attempts at brushing him off turned into full-blown arguments that Frank won through sheer volume and threat alone. He’d never actually hurt any of them (Julie least of all), but they needed to know that ignoring Frank isn’t something they should be getting used to. It’s probably some psychological bullshit that, in another life, he would have dealt with in a healthy manner, like therapy or medication or any other way that didn’t include the promise of violence. </p><p>Now he just feels pissed. He wants to start a fight, but the weight of ire in his chest is outweighed by the ache between his legs. With a petulant sigh, he sits back up and lays a hand on Richard’s leg.</p><p>“Could you <em>please </em>…” He hates that word. “Finish what you started.” One of the man’s eyes open, a single silver orb blinking bright with perversity.</p><p>“And what did I start, Frank?”</p><p>“... Could you please... finger my pussy, Richard.” Not even a second passes before he’s being pulled into Richard’s lap, fully enveloped once more. One hand lays on his hip and begins massaging in gentle motions while the other immediately begins playing with his hole, svelte, adroit fingers splayed across his pink entrance. Now that Frank can see everything that’s happening he can’t help but let out a mewling keen that he’d flush with embarrassment at if he weren’t already red at the attentiveness. One finger brushes gently against his clit and he squirms, toes curling inside of his socks. </p><p>“That didn't take long. You can't help yourself, can you?” A kiss is pressed to his cheek, harsh and strong enough to squish his features. "Don't worry. It's cute." Richard moves his hand so that it’s around the other man’s neck. He gives it a possessive squeeze, and Frank’s face blanches. More pain with his mounting pleasure.</p><p>“And it isn’t Richard, dear. Call me Danny.”</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>A summer night’s breeze flits through the barren outskirts of bitter Ormond as Frank stands before a dilapidated series of garages. The yellow paint on the wood panelling and metal doors are peeling with rust, but the sign above Joey’s uncle’s repair shop shines red, sending beams of bright cerise out in all directions across the grass and spray-paint-riddled pavement. Occasionally, the sign will flicker and half of the lights will mute themselves dull, causing <em> ‘Fraser Auto-Repairs’ </em> to become <em> ‘Ras To-Pairs’ </em> before blinking back a moment later. </p><p>Frank takes his hands out of his pockets and runs his fingers through his hair. He lifts his hood up over his head and heads for the furthest garage on the left, where the mechanical sounds of tools being wound up and metal striking against metal are the loudest. Yellowing light gutters in and out as he gets closer until eventually, he’s leaning in the open garage door, arms crossed over his chest and one of his feet kicked up against the wall.</p><p>Joey Fraser has yet to notice him, as he’s currently underneath a blue and silver two-door Ford. He’s got music playing from his walkman; thrumming beats blast through his headphones loud enough to blow out anyone else’s eardrums. His ripped black jeans stick out off the edge of his scratched up car creeper, foot-tapping along to <em>1800-suicide. </em>Coughing pointedly into his fist probably isn’t going to get his attention, so Frank opts instead to put his foot on the edge of the creeper and drag Joey out in one swift motion. </p><p>He looks confused at first, brows joining across his broad features and a taut frown crossing his lips. That confusion swiftly bends itself into barely-concealed avidity- two pairs of brown eyes meet and they share a mutual grin. Joey draws his wrist across his brow, wiping away sweat, oil and grime.</p><p>“Frank,” Joey says a little too loudly through the volume of his music. Frank extends his hand so that Joey can pull himself up after taking his headphones off and resting them around his neck. He’s wearing a black tank-top with a faded skull insignia on the chest, a red flannel tied around his waist. He hasn’t shaved in a couple of days- unkempt scruff lines his dark cheeks and chin. <em> Probably too busy working, </em> Frank thinks, a tiny twinge of guilt gliding across his brain before dissipating into nothing.</p><p> Frank remembers the days when Joey avoided working at his Uncle Bobby’s garage as if it were a plague. He knows that it was half out of spite for his father and half out of spite for the man himself, a grumpy hick who spent more of his time huffing gasoline than he did try to support his nephew who’d basically taken to living out of his truck. That’s why he’d started working at the convenience store- that’s why they’d broken in to vandalize the place, out of petty revenge and youth-fueled rebellion. It was something other than this. Now Joey doesn’t have much of a choice. </p><p>“Hey, man. Long time no see.” Frank replies, warm and genial. Joey’s an easy guy to please as long as you have a pretty face and he wants to impress you. Luckily, Frank’s two-for-two. He pulls Frank in for a half hug that lasts for no more than a second. Joey smells like metal and earthy coffee grounds.</p><p>“You want a beer? Bobby’s got a fridge in the back.” Joey offers.</p><p>“Nah. Not gonna be here long.” Frank says, sticking his hands back into his pockets and quirking his smile into something a little more sombre. Julie'd gone ballistic when he’d treated his ‘vacation’ like something less than it apparently was- Joey wouldn’t blow up on him like that (a luxury only afforded by Frank, who would only blow up right back), but it’d certainly given Frank a frame of reference.</p><p>Joey frowns.</p><p>“You really passing up a free beer?”</p><p>“I have to talk to you about something,” Frank says. Joey’s frown dips into worry, but he tries to pass it off by slanting his visage into tough, neutral features.</p><p>“You’re acting weird.” He says. </p><p>“It’s nothing bad, don’t get your panties in a twist,” </p><p>“Says you.” Says Joey, with a tone of gentle ribbing. Frank cuffs him over the shoulder and the younger man snorts. Joey’s gotten broader over the last few months, and a lot more solid- comes with the territory of his new job, Frank supposes. It’s nice. He looks nice. Older. The remnants of baby fat in his cheeks have been carved into harsh edges and a clean jawline.</p><p>“Clive’s kicking me out. Fucker wants me gone by tomorrow. Got his last cheque, so now it’s <em>see ya Morrison, good luck out there in the real world. </em> Y’know, like I haven’t been living in the ‘real world’.” </p><p>“Can he even do that?” Joey says indignantly. </p><p>“I’m twenty years old. He could toss me to the curb tonight and there’d be nothing I could do.” <em> You could kill him, </em> A voice in his head thinks. <em> Or at least cause him some good old grievous bodily harm. </em> Maybe. He doesn’t owe the old man anything anymore, now that he won’t be living under his roof- a swift punch in his shitty beer gut before he’s out the door could do the trick.</p><p>Frank’s too wrapped up in his own thoughts to notice that Joey’s looking down at him with a mien wrapped in uncertainty that doesn’t lift until he speaks.</p><p>“You can stay with me. Y'know, if you want.” Frank can’t help but chuckle at that, giving the younger man a pat on the shoulder. "I don't have a lot of room but we can make it work until we figure something else out."</p><p>“You live in a garage and sleep on a couch. Unless you feel like moving back in with your dad I think you’d do better paying more attention to your own fucked up living situation. Besides,” <em> Shit to do, people to see. </em>“I’m going back to Calgary. Not forever- I’ll be back before the end of the year. I just… need to visit someone important.”</p><p>“...Who do you have left?” There’s no harm in his tone, but the question itself stings. Joey looks as if he regrets his words as soon as they leave his mouth, awkwardly looking off to the side. Frank tamps down a spark of ire that’s bubbling up in his chest at the slight. He doesn’t want to be on bad terms with everyone before he leaves, even if Julie’ll come around eventually. At least, that’s what he keeps telling himself. He shrugs his shoulders and shoves his hands into his pockets, flexing his fingers. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to-"</p><p>"It’s fine, Joe. Don’t worry about it. At least you aren’t acting like a bitch. When I told Jules she slammed her door in my face.” The memory stings.</p><p>“She’s always gonna act like a bitch, Frank. It’s just how she deals with shit.” <em> I know that, </em> Frank thinks. <em> I just wish she wasn’t a bitch to me. </em> If Julie were any other ex he’d have her head on a pike. But she’s always been… different. Special. He misses the rare moments where they could act like friends despite their estrangement.</p><p>“I guess..." </p><p>They stand like that for a while. Joey fixes Frank with a half-smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.</p><p>“And... I've been thinking. A lot, actually. I know it's been a year and we haven't really talked about it- since you, ya know, told us not to talk about it- but... It's eating at me, man. I-” Joey’s cut off when an old man’s voice resounds from the back of the garage to the front.</p><p>“Joseph!” </p><p>“What, Bobby?!” Joey calls.</p><p>“Don’t you take that tone with me! I thought I told you to keep that damn kid out of my shop!”</p><p>*</p><p>“Frankie… Wakey wakey, Frankie.” </p><p>Frank opens his eyes and his first instinct is to scream. Looming above him in the dark is a white, elongated face, with pitted eyes and a distended mouth that’s locked into an incessant scream. His lungs operate faster than his brain and he tries to cry out in alarm only for a gloved hand to press itself firmly over his mouth, stifling the noise and forcing him to palate a mixture of leather and salt. He’d taken a shower and brushed his teeth before passing out, but he can still taste cum in the back of his throat. Richard- Danny- whoever the fuck, stands beside his bed in full Ghostface regalia. He’s the spitting image of his idol, all leather and straps, completely monochrome and decidedly eerie when he finally releases Frank’s mouth and cants his head to the side.</p><p>“The fuck…?” Frank hisses. He can imagine Danny smiling underneath his mask as he gives his cheek a firm pat.  </p><p>"C’mon, time to get up," Danny chides. His voice is muddled underneath the plastic, but his words are clear. Frank groans to himself and flips over onto his stomach. The sun isn’t out- it’s pitch black outside, and sleep still clouds his senses in a thick mist. He can hear Danny sigh out in exasperation as Frank shoves a pillow over his head with puerile dramatism.</p><p>He can hear the older man sigh before he begins to rifle through something, and, after a moment, the weight of what feels like a bundle of fabric is dropped onto Frank’s back. With rheumy eyes, he removes the pillow and looks back to see a pair of his jeans and a plain black t-shirt that he doesn’t recognize.</p><p>“What’d I tell you about dressing me?” Frank mutters as he twists onto his back and sits up in bed, grabbing the t-shirt and unfurling it. He holds it up and is promptly hit with the scent of cologne. It doesn’t smell of cheap alcohol and imitation sandalwood. If anything, it’s the expensive shit you’d get at a department store; sweet and dulcet, yet subtle enough as to not be overpowering. His question is ignored.</p><p>“Hurry. We need to get there while it’s still dark.” Danny’s tone is impassive but still stern. It makes Frank think of what a father might sound like trying to rush his son out the door for school. He scowls but starts taking his shirt off anyway, tossing it to the floor with a yawn.</p><p>“This better be worth it. What time is it? One?” Danny sits across from him on his own bed, arms folded neatly over his chest. He somehow manages to make even the mask look lax and catlike, though it’s shrouded in the dim light.</p><p>“Three. I let you get some beauty sleep in, don't worry.” Danny quips. Frank tugs the shirt on and finds that it’s a little too big in the shoulders and a bit too tight near the hips, but fits him well enough that he can flex his arms freely and without restriction. It’s weirdly fitted- less like a t-shirt and more like a short-sleeved camping thermal. </p><p>“What are you planning, Danny? What’s with the get-up?” Frank asks. He doesn’t sound uneasy. If anything, a lilt of excitement edges through his tone, enveloping his otherwise tired cadence.</p><p>"Just checking in on a friend of ours. I figured you'd like to join." Danny shrugs his shoulders with one exaggerated motion. Frank can't help but look away while changing into the jeans. He has to stand up and forgo the cover of his sheets, shimmying and hopping up to button them around his waist. Danny’d fucked him to orgasm with his fingers just four hours ago- played with him languidly after that, keeping him nice and flush to his chest as if Frank were a toy and Danny were a clingy child. He’d passed right out after his shower, spent and relaxed. It was… different. The rough treatment of Danny fucking his face had been balanced out by tender, greedy touches. Frank knows that was intentional- he isn’t an idiot, not to mention that he’s practically a co-author of the manipulator’s handbook. <em> Not so much anymore. </em></p><p>"Let me guess. Veronica?" The younger man suggests, sarcasm laid on thick. </p><p>“Clever boy.” Danny’s voice smiles. His mask catches in the moonlight. A dithering feeling of uncertainty fills Frank’s chest. </p><p>He’d been previously resolute in his stance that he wouldn’t kill anyone with Danny. Not for any moral reason, but rather one of pride. He knows that in his heart, in his mind- he knows that he would’ve ended up killing someone eventually, were it not the caretaker with his Legion. Maybe it could’ve, <em> would’ve </em>been with Julie, the two of them a modern-day Bonnie and Clyde. Maybe if unmediated murder were not the one act that had quickly brought his friends together as a unit before promptly forcing them apart, Frank Moses and the janitor’s side, split open from the ribs up, the Red Sea, they could’ve waited. Caused more havoc and mayhem and terrorized the neighbourhood with increasing brutality, morphed Ormond into their own personal palace… in time, they could’ve been limitless. </p><p>He’d fucked up.</p><p>He<em> knows that now. Joey wasn’t ready, Julie wanted more, and Susie needed more practice; she’d always been too soft.</em></p><p><em>But </em>he<em> wants to do it again. He wants to feel like that again. Powerful. Endless. Seen. He wants to debauch his mind like a draconian demigod, wants hot, wet blood to run thick between his fingers.</em></p><p>Frank tilts his head forward, blonde-tipped brown falling in front of his eyes.</p><p>“So you really do kill people, huh? You weren't just trying to make me shit my pants?” He says.</p><p>"I'm surprised it's taken you this long to man up and ask me yourself. Y’know, I was planning on killing <em> you </em> when we first met..." Danny trails off. He sounds like he’s talking to a child, his chin perched in his gloved hands. “You would’ve been the easiest I’d ever done.”</p><p>"I know that." Frank snaps. "I just..." He doesn't want to say what he’s thinking-<em> 'I thought you’d chickened out, like a little bitch’. </em>No matter how much Danny likes him, how much he enjoys fucking with him, he's still as disposable as trash. "I guessed that I'd played my cards right."</p><p>"You’re giving yourself too much credit. You just looked so... <em> pathetic </em> tied to that tree." Danny says. "You're lucky you’re cute. I had to convince myself not to leave you out there to bleed.” </p><p>Frank’s nose twitches and his features fit themselves into an oblique snarl. </p><p>"Don’t call me <em> cute </em>." He can't help it, his anger. Danny doesn't take him seriously no matter how pissed off he gets, and in the end, he either tires himself out or the fucker makes him see red. “Besides. that’s not the only reason, and we both know it.” </p><p>Frank hears fabric shift, and for a moment, he panics. Danny’s hand is reaching toward one of his straps, and he can see the shine of his polished bowie knife. He stiffens and readies himself for a fight, shoulders squaring and legs tensing… only for a flash to blind him. His mask of anger is replaced with confusion as he blinks away starbursts. When it clears, he can see that the older man is holding a silver camera in his hands.</p><p>"Maybe a few other reasons, but it's mostly because you're cute." Frank’s too stunned to say or do anything as Danny flips the camera around so that he can see his own red face, Ghostface mask canting cheerily.</p><p>“Delete that, you piece of shit!” Frank’s eyes narrow. He reaches out to grab the camera, only for Danny to yank it back after grabbing his wrist tight and twisting it back. Frank yelps out in pain while the other tsks.</p><p>“Mm, I don’t think I will. You look like a rabbit when you get that little twitch in your nose. Do you prefer adorable?”</p><p>“I think I’d prefer that you go fuck yourself.” Danny chuckles darkly and twists his arm back further. Frank grits his teeth and cries out again- a moment later, his wrist is dropped, and Danny goes back to admiring his photo. Frank breathes out a sigh of relief, collapsing back onto his bed loosely. <em> Fine. Pervert. </em> "Are you just gonna keep running me in circles, or are you going to give me a real answer?" He rubs his wrist. “So what. I’ve killed before. You don’t know why, and you don’t know when, and you don’t know how. What makes you think I want to do it again?”</p><p>Danny shakes his head. "You're smart enough to figure it out on your own. If you weren’t smart, you wouldn’t be here right now."</p><p>Frank knows why. Danny thinks he's like him, in some fucked up, psycho-off-his-meds way- a true crime fan gone off the deep-end who spends his offtime admiring the work of others, hoping that, one day, he’ll be up there with the heavy hitters. Danny thinks he wants to feel the pulse of another die underneath his fingertips.</p><p>And he’s right.</p>
<hr/><p>Frank turns a mask around in his hands, inspecting its gruesome details. It’s similar to the one Danny wears right now, standing beside him with a hand to his chin as he looks up at a three-story gray-bricked Colonial that looms over them both, blocking out the yellow crescent moon. There aren’t any clouds out tonight.</p><p>It’s picturesque; the kind of house you’d see on a billboard on the highway advertising condos and gated community showings, except it’s nearly twenty feet away from the homes that flank it, using that free space to display a manicured lawn with currently active sprinklers that dance across its lush green planes. It makes him feel sick. He feels the weight of his knife, finally returned to him freely, heavy in his hoodie pocket.</p><p>The mask, on the other hand, is comically fearsome- rather than an eternal scream, its milk-coloured face is pulled into a toothy smile, creased forehead splattered in what looks to be red paint. Danny had handed it to him wordlessly on the way over. They’d taken an easy five-minute walk from their motel to the home of a woman that Frank had only seen once in passing, which explains the swap over from the Rodeway.</p><p>The home of the same woman that he’s going to help kill. Frank can’t dispel the feeling of dread and excitement that mingle together in his guts. At least he’s acting self-assured. He’s always known how to do that. Chin up, head back, chest out. Nonetheless, deep inside, he feels worms wriggle and butterflies flit. Anticipation.<em> It’s different when it’s planned, </em>he thinks. </p><p>Danny doesn’t speak. He hasn’t said a word since they left the motel. He walks differently in his costume, like a true-to-form ghost rather than a panther. Every single step he makes is completely silent, and everywhere he walks is covered in shadow. Frank tries to follow his lead but he can’t help it when his sneakers smack against the pavement or his breathing deepens. He turns to face him, and Danny’s mask is peering down.</p><p>They’re shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip. Frank imagines Danny's smirking underneath the mantilla and plastic as he brings a finger to where his mouth would be in a shushing motion before stalking forward. The only thing Frank can hear is the chirping of crickets as he follows behind, his own feet shuffling in the grass.</p><p>They reach the side of the house. Danny gives him a tap on his hip and points to his face. Frank nods and fastens the straps of his mask over his visage and pops his hood. Danny gives him a wave before grabbing the top of the fence that surrounds the home’s perimeter. </p><p>He watches in slack-jawed awe as Danny silently pulls himself up between brick wall and wrought-iron like it’s nothing. He moves like a phantom, quickly and with fluid purpose. He nearly forgets the man is human as he reaches what looks to be a bathroom window, about eight feet up, frosted and just big enough to fit the size of a grown person. Danny gives it an experimental push upward, balancing himself on the edge of the fence.</p><p>It pops open with a soft click. He pushes it up all the way and pulls himself through with sheer strength and agility, one foot at a time, all the while producing not a single grunt. </p><p><em> Well, shit. </em> Frank thinks. <em> I can’t do that. </em>Is the guy a retired trapeze artist, or does he just not have any bones?</p><p>A second later, Danny’s masked face appears once again. He looks down at Frank with a preternatural cock of his head, as if to say, <em> What? You do? </em></p><p>Frank rolls his eyes and shrugs pointedly. He can imagine Danny huffing out a sigh before he points to the fence. Frank points back, furrowing his brows. <em> Really? </em> Danny shrugs in return and disappears back over the ledge.</p><p>It takes Frank five minutes to climb up to the top of the fence in tandem with the brick wall, shimmying up slowly and in a much more human fashion. It’d taken Danny about thirty seconds. When he gets close enough to the window, the other man is kind enough to grab him by the scruff of his hoodie and help drag him up the rest of the way like a kitten. </p><p>He steadies himself on the ledge and peeks inside, wheezing in and out, his lungs near to bursting at the pressure. He’s just glad he didn’t fall.</p><p>It’s a bathroom. On the side they’d entered from, there’s a toilet and a sink- Danny’s already stood at the closed door, waiting patiently with his hands on his hips. He can imagine his voice now. <em> Took you long enough. </em></p><p>Frank pushes out a breath as he uses the toilet seat as a footstool and plops down on the white and black tile floor. He moves for the door, hand outstretched, only for Danny to grab him roughly by the shoulder. His grip is tight enough to hurt. Frank grunts in confusion while the other man begins rifling through his straps, once again pulling a digital camera out from his side. He pushes it into Frank’s chest. </p><p>Frank glares through his mask, knowing that he can’t speak lest she hears them, but also unable to emote his confusion. He looks down at the camera in his hands. It’s recording. A little green light blinks in the corner of the screen. Then, Danny opens the door, noiseless and slow. </p><p>The hallway is lined with photos and monochrome paintings. Each one is done in the same Pollock-esque style, abstract, easily produced, and probably far too expensive for Frank to even be looking at. He considers stabbing his knife through the canvas when his brown eyes finally draw back toward the end of the beige swath.</p><p>Frank raises the camera, a smirk passing over his features. Danny leads the way toward the open door, where Veronica sits with her back to them, a fluffy purple robe the only thing covering her body. Her brown hair is tied up into a high ponytail, and she has a pair of earbuds in, blasting music from the silver walkman laid on the corner of her desk. Frank can hear some pop song all the way down the hall. She’s sat in front of a tilted easel, a small white canvas visible from their manner of approach.</p><p>She’s sketching something out with a pencil and humming to herself, shifting her hips back and forth.</p><p>Danny’s revelling in this moment. Frank can tell. His eyes flick between Veronica and the older man, who stands stock-still; Frank would confuse him for a Halloween store mannequin were he not directly beside him, able to hear his soft breathing that shallows out into something deeper and more perverse. He’s <em>excited. </em></p><p>Danny takes a few steps forward, keeping to the edge of the doorway, sticking to the shadows as he had before. Frank follows along best he can, careful not to make a noise as they reach her doorway and, once again, his partner stills.</p><p>He steps in front of Frank and corners his fingers into a frame. It’s a perfect shot- Veronica, cheery, oblivious, tapping her foot along to her music as two masked strangers with ill intentions stand not ten feet away from her, looming from the shadows. The younger man fits the camera into Danny’s outstretched fingers. His partner nods.</p><p>The rest of the night happens in what Frank can only describe as a recorded, static blur. </p><p>Danny stalks up to his victim and grabs her from behind in what Frank can only tell from personal experience is an agonizing chokehold. She doesn’t have time to scream- a gloved hand covers her mouth and her eyes widen into saucers. The camera shakes; Frank feels a tremor in his hands. He wants to help. Not her- not Veronica, not their prey. He wants to help Danny hold her down. </p><p>Her pencil clatters to the floor along with her walkman, pulling her earbuds out with it. Frank hears a plastic snap and the song dies out slowly, like the teetering outro of an old record. She whimpers and Danny grips her tighter, pulling his knife out of its sheath and pointing it at her throat.</p><p>“Hey there, Ronnie. That’s what your friends call you, right?” She tries screaming again, thrashing back and forth in an all-too-familiar way. “I’ll make you a deal. You play along, and we won’t touch a hair on your head.” His voice is pitched deep and rough. Frank’s ears perk up at the sound.</p><p>It’s… attractive<em>. </em>Veronica nods quickly, her bright blue eyes switching rapidly between the camera and the knife at her neck. Danny lets her go and she’s already blubbering- her knees are shaking and she looks like she’s about to piss herself by how white her face has grown, a contrast to her formerly rosy countenance. </p><p>Her muscles in her hands stutter in restrained frustration as her robe falls just over her shoulder.</p><p>As if to exemplify his good faith, Danny uses the tip of his blade to slide it back over to cover her skin, trying to keep her modesty. She flinches away at the point. The man slowly releases her jaw and she sucks in a breath, her whole body shaking with her voice. </p><p>"Didn't know you'd be in a bathrobe. Sorry about that, Ron."</p><p>“Wh...Who are you?” She says. It’s a small voice like she’s afraid to speak in more than a hushed whisper. Tears well in her eyes and spill over onto her white cheeks, and she sniffs, her chest rising and falling like a rabbit’s. </p><p>Frank’s never liked watching girls cry.</p><p>“You don’t need to know that, Ronnie. Just look pretty for the camera.” Danny grabs her chin and forces her to look at Frank. He’s working on autopilot. He focuses the view right on her tear-stained mien, causing her to sob once again.</p><p>“Please, please don’t hurt me! I’ll do anything you want! I’ll give you anything! My family has money-” She squeals when the knife draws closer to her face. A bright red pinprick appears on the blanched skin of her cheek. “I have money! There are jewelry and cash in the house- I, I can show you where it is! <em> Please, </em> God, <em> please </em> don’t kill me!”</p><p>“I told you to play along. Don't break now.” Danny hisses. “I know your family has money, Veronica. I know Daryl and Pamela take good care of their little girl. They always have. You don’t even need to lift a finger and you get this nice big house all to yourself.”</p><p>“How… How do you know their names?” She sniffs.</p><p>“I know everything about you, <em> Veronica Lee Marsh. </em> I know how you take your coffee. I know you like pretty blonde boys and I know that your favourite medium is charcoal on Moleskine. And now…” He lowers the blade to her chest and she convulses in his arms. It’s a dead woman’s final lash in the grim reaper’s iron grip.</p><p><em> “I’m going to know what your insides look like.” </em>He whispers right in her ear. He raises his knife, and, with vehement strength, plunges it into her chest, right where her left lung is.</p><p>She begins crying out, an unintelligible shriek for anyone, anything to hear her, save her- she looks to the camera for help where there is none. It’s music to Frank’s ears as much as it’s static noise. Danny covers her mouth to stifle her, and stabs her again at the other side of her chest. She makes a series of noises, gurgling noises, and Frank zooms in on her face as claret falls from her mouth in a steady dribble. </p><p>Danny flips her around as she grabs at the air, grabs at her chest, twists in bleak desolation. He kicks her to the ground with a heavy black boot, and Frank steps back into the hallway to get a better angle, his shaky camerawork not doing the scene any true justice. He sits on her chest, crushing her frenzied writhing, and begins stabbing at her body wantonly and with fervency; once in her side, once in her throat.</p><p>Deep scarlet splashes across the plush carpet, her canvas, the walls, Frank’s jeans, and especially the white plastic of his ghoulish mask.</p><p>“You’re going to be immortal Ronnie!” Another jab into her middle- her eyes are wide and she lets out a gasping cry. “The whole world’s going to know your name! Isn’t that exciting?” He laughs, manic and teetering.</p><p>Veronica Lee Marsh dies choking on her own blood, wet carmine trickling from between her exsanguinated lips. Danny looks right at home perched on a dying woman’s chest, like a bird feeding on carrion. He’s swathed in the white light of her studio’s harsh lamp but still appears to the camera as a figure covered head to toe in the gloaming.</p><p>It dawns on Frank now that Danny Edward Johnson isn’t just a wannabe with a kill count in the single digits. He <em>is </em> The Ghostface. He’s the boogeyman who stalks his victims in the shadowed contours of their own homes, their own cities, where they’re meant to feel safe and secure. The darkness is his playground. </p><p>The Ghostface killer is a borderline urban legend, and he’s also a pervert who likes to listen to 80s girl-pop on road trips.</p>
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<a name="section0005"><h2>5. I Fake It So Real, I Am Beyond Fake</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>this entire chapter is basically just pwp, but i'm planning to drop another one soon with more plot if that's not your speed. triggers for this chapter include mentions of trans/homophobia, use of the q slur in a derogatory manner, brief mentions of physical and emotional child abuse, aaaand i think that's it.<br/>also don't be like danny and frank, use a condom &lt;3<br/>please enjoy and be safe!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Frank hasn’t always been a fan of Susie. In fact, he’d thought she was a bit of a loser; all silver-capped teeth and anxiety, her face constantly ruddy from stress. She reminded him of a high-strung French poodle, trailing behind Julie and clinging to her arms. Now he thinks of her more as a sister- a sister who’d grown, at first reluctantly, into his lifestyle of delinquency and petty crime. He’s proud of her in a way; proud of how far she’s managed to come since her days as a disquieted little nobody who read Shakespeare for fun (though he’s fairly sure she still does that if the pile of thick books left on the couch at the resort is anything to go by) and wouldn’t hurt a fly. </p><p>A prodigy of sorts; they all are, in his eyes.</p><p>He stands in front of her now with his arms folded across his chest as she shoves snacks into her book bag. He’s blocking the convenience store camera from view, hood up and chin pointed downward, features shrouded by shadow. A few strands of freshly bleached blonde to fall in front of his dark eyes. He taps his folded knife against his forearm with sharp impatience, nose twitching when he hears the crinkling of a bag of chips behind him. </p><p>“You wanna hurry it up?” He says, brows furrowing. He can see both of them silhouetted in the convex mirror above them, distending their forms into a single shapeless mass. Bright lustre from the frozen aisle flickers to their left, the only thing serving as a light during their midnight robbery. </p><p>“I said I wanted some Ringolos, not the whole damn aisle. Can you even eat half of this shit or is it gonna get caught in your teeth?” His tone is that of gentle ribbing.</p><p>"I'm sorry Frank, but you're not the only one eating tonight." She sounds stern. Another sign of her quickly-forming confidence. He used to get annoyed at her for growing quiet whenever he decided to raise his voice. If she was going to hang out with Julie, and by extension himself, she had to learn how not to be such a crybaby. She’s gotten better at verbal sparring. "I have space for it, we're getting as much as I can carry."</p><p>“Awfully bold, Bellemare.” He says.</p><p>“Thought you liked bold.” She replies, grabbing a bag of beef jerky and tucking it deftly into her hoodie pocket.</p><p>“I do. Suits you.” He says. He can’t help the small surge of fraternal vaunt that fills his tone.</p><p>“Maybe I don’t want it to ‘suit me’.” He can practically hear her roll her eyes.</p><p>“Now’s not a good time to get self-analytical.” He says.</p><p>“I’m not being self-analytical.” She sighs. He turns to face her fully, pocketing his knife.</p><p>“Sure sounds like you’re trying to be.” Frank quips.</p><p>“Why do you push me around so much?” </p><p>“It’s just teasing, Suz.” It really is. He hasn’t pushed her around for months. It’s not as if he’s going easy on her- he’s just found that he doesn’t need to be as hard on her. She got the memo when Julie had her plunge a knife into a dying man’s rib cage.</p><p>“My name’s not Suz. It’s <em> Susie. </em> ”</p><p>“See? You’re too easy to fuck with. Like a shitty little sister.” </p><p>“Some brother you are, then.” She says bitterly, with a sardonic, lilted aftertaste. Angry sarcasm. </p><p>“I’m wounded.” He thinks they’re joking, mutual ragging back-and-forth, right up until he notices the look in her eyes. In the dark, he can see the edges of tears forming in her bright baby blues. His heart stops. <em>Fucking hell. </em>She cries when she’s angry- cries when she’s happy, too. He’s never met someone who was so emotive with their feelings, but it’s not as if he thinks she has much of a choice. The world’s been too gentle with her. It hasn’t jaded her in the way it has him. “Oh, Christ. Susie, are you serious? Don’t tell me you’re actually mad.”</p><p>“I’m not… <em> mad. </em> I’m- I’m terrified.” She huffs, sniffs, shoulders her bag. He can see a slight tremor in her hand as she does so. “And this isn’t about me.”</p><p>“You getting soft on me again? If you’re scared about getting caught for taking some chips from a goddamn Seven Eleven, just chill, okay? We’ll be back at the lodge in an hour and you can complain to Jules about it. She’s your fuckin’ therapist, not me.”</p><p>“And this isn’t about stealing some fucking Ringolos!” Susie’s voice hitches. She sounds like she’s choking on a sob. “We can’t just go back to normal, Frank.” She cuts herself off as her voice pitches high. “We can’t just… forget what we did. Everywhere I look- every person I see- my mom, my guidance counsellor, kids at school. Shit, even people in the street. I can’t help but think-” </p><p>“Think what?” He can’t stave off the aggression that seeps into his words. It cuts across hers before she’s even finished speaking. Her fidgeting worsens, and Frank spares a glance toward her hands. They’re covered in bandaids, pink and blue and green. She’s picking at the edges.</p><p>“... That they know.”</p><p>“Nobody’s going to know shit.” He grabs her by the shoulder- grips it tight as a vice, and he can see her wince. “Nobody’s going to know if you keep your metal trap <em> shut </em> .” They can find the body for all Frank cares- it’d make Julie happy. But nobody can know it was them who put it in the ground. As far as Frank’s concerned, it was all for the good of the Legion, their own personal brand of secular denomination. Killing the caretaker was meant to bring them together- fuse them like joints. Not tear them apart with murky sinew that’s glumly verdant in the way that corpses are. “It’s been three months. He’s worm-food by now. Don’t <em> fucking </em> pussy out on us, or I’ll-” She pushes him away, and he stumbles backward, nearly tripping over a rack of porno mags.</p><p>“You’re… You’re not my <em>brother, </em> Frank. A brother wouldn’t make me <em> kill someone. </em>And he wouldn't try to forget about it, either!”</p><p>*</p><p>“Hey there...” Says Richard- Jed- Danny- <em> the Ghostface</em>. It breaks Frank out of his stupor. He nearly drops the camera but corrects himself last moment.</p><p>“What?” He croaks. It’s the first thing he’s said since they’d arrived at Veronica’s house. Said woman lay splayed across the carpet, her body perfectly still. He’s now seen three corpses in his twenty years spent on earth, and each of them had been fresh. </p><p>She’s nearly doll-like in the way she rests, arms posed above her head in a position that betrays her violent end, joints twisted and unnaturally bent. Dark blood pools beneath her torso. It’s stark against the white carpet, and Frank swears that he can see it bubble, still-warm and thick as tar. He watches it ebb with a mix of fascination and rapture.</p><p>“Snowball’s come to say hello.” Danny hums. The man drops to his haunches, still atop Veronica’s body. When he shifts, another clew of red drips from between her pallid lips. He’s about to question if Danny’s finally gone completely batshit when something brushes against his leg. He startles, briefly, only to settle when he sees a tiny white cat rubbing its chin against his shin. <em> The cat. Right. </em> Frank huffs. His heart feels like it’s in his hands, pulse loud and overbearing. </p><p>Danny clicks his tongue, and Snowball trots over, tail bobbing back and forth. </p><p>“You’re not a very good guard kitty, are you?” The Ghostface says, giving her a pat on the head with the palm of his glove. It stains its fur a splotchy red.</p><p>Frank zooms in on Veronica’s face. He can get a good look at her now; her dark hair is spread out across the floor like a halo, having at some point slipped out of its ponytail. She has freckles, a gentle dusting across her nose. Or are they specks of blood? He can’t tell.</p><p>“Man, if you’re thinking of killing the cat, don’t make me film it,” Frank mumbles through his mask. The older man has the gall to look offended, pressing a hand to his chest dramatically.</p><p>“I’d never kill an <em>animal,</em>” Danny says.</p><p>“Excuse me for thinking that you wouldn’t be against killing something defenceless.”</p><p>“Get off your high horse, Frankie. You could’ve stopped me if you wanted to. Besides, that’s not the point-” He scratches Snowball between the ears. “It’s just not as fun. Cats don’t  scream. Now, shh. You’re talking through my shot.” Frank grumbles under his breath before focusing the camera once again.</p><p>“Where were we?” The Ghostface’s voice returns to that deep timbre it’d had before. Another shiver runs up Frank’s spine. Danny grabs one of Veronica’s hands and, in one fell swoop, chops off the tip of her finger with the edge of his knife.</p><p>Time slows. Frank zooms the camera in on the blade, then the finger, then Veronica’s hand as Danny drops it carelessly back to the carpet. Blood gushes from the newly opened wound, mingling with that which blooms underneath her. A tiny river of red.</p><p>“... What are you doing?” Frank asks. Danny lets out a low laugh, flourishing his knife with practiced grace.</p><p>“I’m feeding the cat.” Frank’s eyes break away from the camera as he instead turns his full attention to the scene before him, live, in person, and without the filter of a lens. The Ghostface extends a hand outward, offering the cat his open palm where the tip of a bloody pinkie lay. It sniffs it, once, twice. Its tail lowers and its ears tilt backward before it grabs the appendage between its teeth and knocks it to the floor.</p><p>Then it eats it. Loudly, with a crunch, as runty teeth pinch through thin flesh and into skinny bone. It eats her, and Frank doesn’t know why that’s what pushes him over the edge and away from the corners of his fantasy. He doesn’t remember being this sick when they’d killed the caretaker- maybe it was the shock, though he doesn’t remember feeling shocked. Only exalted, filled with pure unbridled rhapsody. </p><p>Why is this any different?</p><p>Nausea sweeps over Frank as he drops the camera and bolts toward the bathroom faster than Danny can stand up and call out. He doesn’t hear what he says, but he sounds anything but courteous as Frank throws the mask to the tile floor and proceeds to projectile vomit directly into the sink. Bile fills his nose, catches in his hair, drips thick from his lips.</p><p>He assumes that this is him throwing up every last drop in him that could be considered good. He's surprised the vomit isn't black- like old, coagulated blood.</p><p>He can’t register much after that. He knows that Danny grabbed him by the scruff of his hood and held him up toward the window, the moonlight, fresh air. He knows that he sounds stern, like how Frank imagines a father would sound. He doesn’t process anything other than an austere, </p><p>“-Just… fucking wait outside<em>. </em> The back door’s unlocked. Shit, where does she keep the bleach...”</p><hr/><p>Frank looks up at the night sky and longs for a cigarette. He sits criss-cross on Veronica’s back patio, Danny’s mask held in his hands once again as his eyes draw languidly across the faintly dappled ether.</p><p>You can see a lot of stars in Ormond- not so much further down south. He remembers seeing them for the first time, twinkling across the wide navy yonder, thousands of microscopic pinpricks on a black canvas. He can’t say why, if only to spare his pride, but one of his favourite pastimes was sitting atop Clive’s roof with a stolen ashtray and staring up at the stars, a smoke in one hand and a beer in the other. He used to think it made him seem like a philosopher, like one of those long-dead Greeks, like Aristotle, looking up at the same old moon. Those thoughts feel silly now. The stars don’t matter. They’re too high up. </p><p>The mask weighs heavy in his hands. </p><p>The door behind him opens and something chilled butts up against his shoulder. Frank glances up to see Danny with his head canted to the side, expectant, mask still in place; blood stains bone-white, fresh flecks of scarlet unvarnished. He’s holding a glass of cold water in one hand and a small hand towel in the other.</p><p>Frank drops the mask and takes it wordlessly. He throws it back, thankful when the bitter taste of bile fades in his mouth. He chugs the whole glass, and thumps it down beside him when he’s finished, arms folding back into his lap. Danny settles, sitting down beside him, before grabbing the glass and neatly wiping it clean. <em> Ah. Fingerprints. </em></p><p>“You got any smokes?” He asks. Danny sighs like he’s disappointed.</p><p>“No.” He still sounds like a father, stern and steady. Frank would hate it in any other context- every ‘father’ he’s ever had has been an abusive prick or an absentee presence that drummed up the patrilineal act whenever CPS finally decided to pay a visit, only to disappear into a blur of booze and late-night tv the second the coast was clear of social workers (who, truth be told, could not give less of a damn if Frank were getting beat directly in front of them). Now it’s only vaguely irritating. He lets his vexation slide across his back as he settles his weight onto the palms of his hands.</p><p>"So what'd you do with the body? Finish chopping her up into kibble?” Frank asks. Danny chuckles.</p><p>“Nope. Don’t plan on it either. That’d take far too long and be far too risky. We’d have to take her home, lay her out on a tarp, whip out the bone-saws… Snowball would get hungry in the meantime, and I don’t think you have the stomach to cut off poor Ronnie’s toes. Didn’t take you for the squeamish type, dear.” </p><p>“I’m not squeamish. I just don’t think I’m used to this yet.” <em>Not used to it in the way a man with a kill count in the double digits would be.</em> “You... really are the Ghostface, aren’t you?” The question hangs thick between them, but Danny’s hidden cadence reveals nothing but silence. It draws on.</p><p>“So you aren’t stupid,” Danny says, turning to face him. The mask tilts. He drops the towel and the glass to the porch and extends his arm, looping it around Frank’s shoulders. The younger man can’t help but keen into it. It feels like they’re a couple, staring up at the stars- a real fucked up couple, one wearing a Halloween costume covered in a dead woman’s blood and the other with vomit still sticking in his hair.</p><p>“‘Course I’m not stupid. But <em>you</em> might be. You didn’t do a good job hiding it.”</p><p>“It wasn’t meant to be a surprise. Did you enjoy all the little hints I left you? Like a scavenger hunt.” Frank pauses. So Danny had left his licenses out in the open on purpose? Honestly, that seems far more likely than him somehow fucking up and leaving his sort-of-captive to rummage through his shit unattended.</p><p>"You weren't exactly subtle." and Frank wasn't exactly receptive. It should've been obvious from the start, but he didn't make the connection in his head past the guy being a Ghostface fanboy gone off the rails right up until he actually got to see him kill. Maybe he was being a little stupid- that, or his brain was trying to save him from the truth. That he’d really been at death’s doorstep, and the only reason he’d been spared is that Danny saw something in him that nobody else ever had besides his Legion. That he can be a killer. That he can be dangerous- <em> truly </em>dangerous. Feared. <em> Respected. </em></p><p>"And you think I didn't know that?" Frank can imagine him quirking a brow behind his mask. He pulls Frank in tighter, squeezing his shoulders. Again, Frank revels in it. He’s warm, warm like the blood that sticks between them- some of it clings to the shirt Danny’d let him borrow, gluing them together. It still smells like sandalwood. "I needed to make sure I could trust you. I've already told you that, on many occasions."</p><p>"And now that you do trust me, I'm gonna be your cameraman?"</p><p>"You could have joined in at any point. I wouldn't have stopped you. Just make sure to not throw up next time, okay?" Frank smiles. <em> Next time. </em></p><p>"I’m not gonna fucking throw up as long as you stop feeding chicks fingers to cats."</p><p>"I can't make any promises." Danny quips, running a hand through Frank's hair. They stay like that for what seems like ages, sitting in the afterglow, right up until Danny stands to his feet and stretches his hands above his head, animated and cat-like. "Now," He begins, offering Frank a hand. He takes it- grips it tightly, like a lifeline- and pulls himself up. Danny settles his free hand on Frank's hip and holds him there. "Let's get you cleaned up."</p><hr/><p>It’s feels like it's been ages since Frank’s had a proper shower. Proper being one where he didn’t feel forced to get in and out under two minutes lest Danny decided to creep on him more than he already had- before he’d sucked the guy’s dick (or watched him kill a woman in cold blood, which was arguably far more intimate) and decided that he isn’t exactly <em>against </em>being bare-ass naked around him. And, even before that, a shower on the road wasn’t exactly an option, and dunking his head in rest stop toilets didn’t exactly seem like a savoury alternative.</p><p>He stands below the showerhead, a lather of cheap shampoo in his hands. He runs it through his hair with agitated fervour, then looks down at the drain. It swirls with porcelain and bright, cherry red. </p><p>It doesn’t smell like vomit anymore, but the taste is still in his mouth. He closes his eyes and dunks his head under the current, feeling warmth envelop him and drag down every crevice and rise along the front of his body, before grabbing a hand towel from the rack and scrubbing his skin raw. The red slowly turns salmon, then pink, then crystal clear as the diluted remnants of Veronica Lee Marsh are sent down to the depths of the motel’s pipes.</p><p>Frank doesn’t feel anything other than alert. A normal person would feel sick- more than sick, probably. Disgusted, repulsed, shocked are better terms- and he did feel ill, momentarily, when he threw up the contents of his stomach. The sickness settled the moment Danny held him close. However, whatever laxity he’d had on the porch at Veronica’s house had been pried from him and replaced with vigilance sharper than a knife.</p><p>Maybe he really did throw up whatever good was left within him. Or, maybe, he never had any good in him at all. <em> Bastard. Burden. Thief. </em> He’d only ever taken those words to heart, repeated to him by every goddamn teacher or foster parent he’d ever had, out of spite. <em> If they think I’m trouble now, just wait until I </em>try. Now he can’t help but wonder if they were right; that he’d somehow been destined to end up with blood on his hands for not just the first but the second time.</p><p>He remembers the first time he ever cut his own hair. He’d been standing before a mirror in his fourth foster family’s crowded bathroom, straightening iron and a stick of Teen Spirit deodorant blocking the electrical socket. He’d unplugged the hot iron and replaced it with that of the clippers he holds in his other hand. He turned it on. It buzzed. He turned it off. </p><p>He’d looked into the mirror and ran a hand through his hair. It used to be a mousey brown, long enough to reach his shoulder blades, and insufferably <em>plain. </em> He didn’t- <em> doesn’t- </em> look like his mom. He can remember her, vaguely; the idea of her. Tall, willowy, blonde. She was like a model. He imagines heads turning in the streets of Calgary as she walked with him hand-in-hand to choir practice.</p><p>But that isn’t a memory, really. It’s a collection of colours and shapes that were given form whenever he took a peek at the photo he’d kept of her in a shoebox underneath his many cycling beds. The only thing Frank can claim from her are her brown eyes, and even then, hers were brighter, softer. Not the near-charcoal colouring of his own.</p><p>He’d narrowed his eyes in the mirror. Then, he grabbed the clippers, held his breath, and shaved his head right down to the root. After ten minutes of using one of his older foster sister’s compacts to eye the back of his neck to keep the cut even, he’d left it as a semi-buzz. Kids at school called him <em> G.I Jane </em>until he gave one of them a black eye and another a broken nose. He’d grow it out eventually, bleach it blonde in hazy maternal memory, but he’d always make sure to cut it himself.</p><p>The moment he left the bathroom, he was in for a lecture. ‘Lecture’- a tongue-lashing, really. Verbal abuse that seemed endless the longer he stood there and took it. His foster mother told him he looked like a boy. Looked like a <em> queer. </em>In return, he’d called her a prissy bitch. </p><p>It was then that she raised her hand to him and smacked him flat across the face, each of the golden rings that adorned her spray-tanned fingers leaving a red imprint on the apple of his cheek. </p><p><em> ‘So what if I am?’ </em> He’d said after a brief moment of recovery. He was used to pain- <em> is </em> used to pain. Used to getting slapped around, used to the sudden sting. He’d held his chin up high and smirked up at her like he hadn’t a care in the world. <em> ‘You’d find a reason to throw me out anyway, </em> queer <em> or not. So how ‘bout I give you another one?’ </em></p><p>He backhanded her, and she played it up like the whiny bitch she was. Told her husband that he just jumped her, and the old man fucking believed it- not like he’d have a reason not to. </p><p>Bastard. Burden. Thief. More than that. Slut, sometimes- druggie the next. But none were more spurring than <em> violent. </em>Out of control. He likes his temper. It does him well, even when sometimes he takes it too far and gets kicked off the basketball team for punching a ref in the teeth.</p><p>He’d proven all of that even without Danny’s help. No matter how many times he might’ve tried to twist it as self defence in his mind, some pitiful attempt at vindication, he’d simply killed the janitor because he’d wanted to. He’d <em>wanted</em> to see the man bleed- see him hurt. Wanted the world to see what the King of Ormond wasn't... <em>isn't</em> afraid to do.</p><p>Frank doesn’t hear the click of a radio turning on, but he certainly hears the aftermath. A woman’s voice cuts through the current of the shower, crinkling like a record behind the bathroom door.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b> <em>Tumble outta bed,</em> </b>
</p><p>
  <b> <em>And I stumble to the kitchen,</em> </b>
</p><p>
  <b> <em>Pour myself a cup of ambition</em> </b>
</p><p>
  <b> <em>And yawn and stretch and try to come to life.</em> </b>
</p><p> </p><p>He can’t help it- he rolls his eyes. </p><p>The bathroom door opens. A jet of steam escapes the room alongside a measure of warmth. Behind the shower curtain, Frank can see the blurry form of Danny beginning to strip off the rest of his clothes. They’d taken off their top layers in Danny’s car, tossing the majority of their bloody items into the trunk to be dealt with later alongside their masks, leaving behind only the red that had managed to bleed through onto their skin. Frank stills his scrubbing as the older man pulls the shower curtain back and steps in, blocking the current with his back. </p><p>Suddenly, Frank feels incredibly exposed. He swallows thickly, gazing at Danny’s toned chest, his hair-dusted, muscled thighs... his semi-hard, thick cock. He licks his lips. Danny laughs, clear as a bell.</p><p>“Getting started without me?” He says, grinning. His grey eyes drag down Frank’s form, leering and hungry. Frank covers his chest instinctively, only for Danny to step in and pull his arms back down with uncharacteristic tenderness. He holds them, gently, to Frank’s sides. Once again, he’s silent, staring into Danny’s pale gaze. “None of that, dear. I want to see <em> all </em> of you.”</p><p>Frank hates feeling like a virgin- hates feeling like he hasn’t fucked and been fucked more times than he can count on his hands. He gathers up what he can of his pride and smirks.</p><p>“Dolly Parton. <em> Really. </em> I didn’t think you could get any gayer.” Danny gives him an imitative pout.</p><p>“I think you’ve already insulted my music taste enough,” He replies, before reenacting a familiar scene with frustratingly graceful ease- he grabs Frank by the shoulders and twists him around so that his back is flush to Danny’s chest. He feels the older man’s cock twitch to attention against the plush curve of his ass, and can’t help but gasp at the contact, warm and slick and thrilling. The scent of soap mingles with that of spiced sandalwood and something metallic. “Always so rude. I should shut you up.” He starts kissing his throat, breath hot when it drags over his pulse. He nibbles at his shoulder, the crook of his neck, and Frank whines as he feels sharp pinpricks of pleasure roll over him in tandem with the steady jet of water.</p><p>“Gonna fuck my face again? Kind of a one-trick pony, eh?” Frank manages to huff out. Danny’s lovebites hasten into gnaws, and Frank startles, choking out a yelp.</p><p>“You were doing so well at the house, too. Nice and quiet, sticking to me close like a lost little puppy… You had every chance to run, but you didn’t. Let’s keep that up, hm?”</p><p>“If I ran, you would’ve just killed me,” Frank says.</p><p>“Yes. Obviously. I would’ve made it painful, too.” Danny sounds disappointed again, if only briefly. “But the point is that you’re mine now, Frank.”</p><p>“I’m not <em>yours</em>. I’m nobody’s.” He doesn’t sound sure of himself. Another whine is forced out from between his lips as he screws his eyes closed. Danny takes that as permission to begin fondling Frank’s chest. Both hands, calloused and rough, squeeze his tender flesh and pinch his nipples. He keens shamelessly into Danny’s touch, disproving his own point in the face of wanton pleasure. Throbbing sparks running down from his chest to between his legs.</p><p>“If you want to keep lying to yourself, be my guest. But the truth is,” Another pinch, another possessive squeeze. Dolly Parton fades into the background. “You’re my whore, aren’t you?” </p><p>Frank seethes. He tries to ignore that the proprietary nature of Danny’s tone makes the ache between his thighs ebb, instead gritting his teeth and opening his eyes. He narrows them into a pointed threat before thrashing, grabbing Danny’s hands in his own and holding them still.</p><p>“I’m <em> not </em> a fucking who-” </p><p>Danny kisses him. </p><p>Frank’s eyes flutter closed as his tongue works its way between his lips. It’s sudden and consuming; the tang of his spit, the fever of his tongue, hungry and fire-hot. He forgets everything the moment Danny bites harshly at his bottom lip- forgets that he’s taking a shower because he’d been covered in blood. Forgets that, just days ago, he’d been handcuffed to this psycho’s bed.</p><p>He tastes like blood and bittersweetness. </p><p>Danny clutches him tight and Frank clings in return until they eventually part for air. He tries to go back in for another kiss- one where he’s the one devouring, controlling,- until Danny grabs him firmly by the jaw, squishing his features.</p><p>“Bend over, Frankie. I want your hands on the wall, legs spread.” He says. His voice is dark.</p><p>“Tough,” Frank smirks. Though he still feels love-drunk from the kiss, he can always manage to pull defiance out of his ass. It doesn’t help his case when he sounds breathless in his delivery, however. His eyes meet Danny’s, brown-black on pale gray, before they drag downward to eye at a subtle streak of dried blood on his neck not yet washed. He wants to lick it clean; bite at the man’s throat until it’s bruised and purple, swollen like a dead body. “Make me.”</p><p>Danny grabs him by his hair- hard. Frank hisses and wriggles, only for Danny to yank him forward, forcing his ass out and his hands against the tile. Danny clicks his tongue.</p><p>“You might not be a whore, but you sure are a <em> brat.</em>”</p><p>He plunges his dick into Frank’s sleek pussy with one smooth motion, the water acting as an additional lubricant. He gasps, clutching at the wall, and bites at his lip to stifle himself. </p><p>Fuck. <em> Fuck. </em>God, it feels good to have a dick inside of him after so long, and one that’s connected to someone who, for all intents and purposes, actually seems to know what he’s doing. It fills him up, his walls immediately clenching around Danny’s heat.</p><p>“Shit, Frank, you were built to take dick. I can tell you’ve had lots of practice, but you’re still nice and tight…” The rhythm begins harsh and fast. The sound itself is lewd, the harsh slapping of skin against skin, alongside Danny’s occasional chuffed groan and Frank’s muffled cries. He knows he looks fucking slutty right now, with Danny breaching his body like a knife through silk, hands clawing harshly at his hips and his sides, but he’s not submitting without a fight. He buries his head in his arms and braces himself against the unrelenting tempo. “Louder, baby. I can’t hear you.” </p><p>Frank’s brows would furrow if he could do anything but mewl. After a few more pumps, Danny sighs, before reaching around his neck and sticking his fingers in Frank’s half-open mouth. The older man quickens his pace. It feels more like he’s using Frank as a toy than a partner- there’s almost no attention given to his own pleasure, just the jack-hammering of Danny’s dick into his clenching hole, and somehow that makes it all the sweeter. He moans. He moans <em>loud.</em> A trickle of drool begins pooling in his mouth, before dribbling down his chin and onto his neck. Maybe he’s a <em>bit </em>of a slut.</p><p>“You like it when I fuck you like this? Like a whore?” <em>Fuck. </em> Another moan as his hole twitches. Is he really so close to cumming already? Danny shoves his fingers deeper into Frank’s mouth, forcing his tongue out alongside a whimper. Shit, he sure <em>sounds </em>like a fucking slut. It’s all pitched and puling, something you’d only hear a bitch in a porno cry out, but right now it’s all real- no airbrushed cunts or big fake tits, just a scrawny twenty-something kid getting his ass pounded by a nationally feared serial killer in a grimy motel bathroom. <em> Damn, </em>if his foster mother could see him now. “I asked you a question.” </p><p>“Fuck, yes!” It sounds pathetic and grating, and Frank’s clear flush only deepens when he hears Danny chuckle in response.</p><p>“Good boy,” Danny says, before drawing his cock slowly from Frank’s hole. There's a fault and a grunt in time with teasing, too-light strokes across the twitching folds of his pussy. All of that culminates into giving Frank’s upper thighs a hard slap with his free hand- then another, and another. He cries out against calloused fingers in tandem with each strike. “I’m gonna finish inside you. Is that what you want? You want me to cum inside your slutty cunt?”</p><p>“A-ah! Fuck! <em> Shit!</em>”</p><p>“That’s not an answer.”</p><p><em> “Yes!” </em>He can’t see his face- only hear his voice from his position facing the wall- but he can imagine Danny’s smile, dark and Cheshire. He can feel those pallid eyes burn deep into the small of his back. “Fuck it into me! Fuck, Danny, please!”</p><p>The relentless pace returns, but this time it aches of finality. Something in his stomach pulses and he feels himself spasm, the inside of his red-raw pussy snapping over Danny’s twitching cock. He feels his head get all fuzzy, sparking and fizzing like television static, and the world around him fades into a lurid, molten glow. </p><p>He knows it’s fucked up. Fucked up that he feels this good being used as a goddamn sex toy, getting off to the feeling of being owned. He’s always been resolute in his stance that he could never be tied down. Even with Julie, (adamantine, soft-on-the-inside Julie, who fucked him like a lover, who slipped her piano-fingers inside of him with grace and care and hardly-practiced ease) he felt as if their relationship could be hypothetically open if there were more people in Ormond who he would even give a second glance. Nobody in that town, save Susie and Joey, eventually, was worth more than an eye-roll and a middle finger. But with the Ghostface Killer, he wants to be <em>possessed</em>. It’s carnal and overbearing- like the need to sleep or the need to eat.</p><p>After his own orgasm and the high it brings, Frank feels all but ready to crumble to his knees, but not before Danny buries the hilt of his dick into his hole, keeping it there as a rush of warmth enters him in a jetting stream. It seems endless- a goddamn cream-pie. </p><p>They stay like that, joined together until Danny takes his cock out with a smooth, distinct motion. Then, he starts stroking at his slit. Presumably admiring his own little masterpiece; the vision of a load of cum dripping thick from between Frank’s pussy lips. He strokes his thighs and Frank melts like butter. After a moment of appreciated, brief aftercare, he feels strong arms close around him once again- but this time, with clemency. </p><p>Danny holds him tight to his chest as more cum dribbles down between his thighs. It reminds Frank of one of his first nights spent with the killer, enveloped in his arms like a makeshift teddy bear, except this time, he holds him back. It's warm. Motel showers don't get cold.</p><p>“How does Chinese sound?” Danny says, looking down and canting his head. He’s smirking. <em> Always fucking smirking. </em>It’s an immodest smirk, really. “I’m in the mood for chow mein. I'll even let you order this time."</p><p>Too much pride and just enough teeth.</p>
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<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Of A Shyness That Is Criminally Vulgar</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The drive into what Frank assumes is Calgary remains quiet, save for the occasional hiss of a cigarette being lit and the changing of channels. Frank gets to play DJ again, thank god; Suicidal Tendencies’ <em> You Can’t Bring Me Down </em>sounds from the radio, playing from a mixtape stolen from a dead man named Richard Young. </p><p>Danny had offered him a pack before they hit the road despite obviously not being one to smoke (the scent would be covered by his cologne regardless, but his teeth are white and he’s old enough that smudges of tobacco would begin seeping into his nails and button-downs if he did). Presumably, he picked it up from a gas station while Frank was sleeping, belly full of chicken fried rice and orange beef. He’d taken it greedily and all but swallowed the first cig he’d pulled out. He’s on his third now, windows down, hand out the passenger side tapping along with the rhythm. </p><p>“You should really think about quitting,” Danny mutters under his breath. Frank pauses, looking up with an incredulous stare. He takes another drag of his cigarette, mostly out of spite, and blows the smoke out the window before he responds. </p><p>“What?” </p><p>“Smoking’s bad for your health.” Well,<em> duh. </em></p><p>“You wanna talk bad for my health? You ever hear of condoms, <em>Rich?”</em> Danny clicks his tongue.</p><p>“Didn’t need a condom. We were in the shower.” Frank gives him another disbelieving look before he shrugs his shoulders and throws his cigarette butt out the window, watching it drop to the speeding pavement with a dull, fading spark. So… Danny doesn’t exactly have a <em> great </em>grasp on sex-ed. That, or he doesn’t give a shit. </p><p>“Whatever.” Frank doesn’t feel like arguing. He starts his tapping again. “Why do you give a shit?”</p><p>“Well, first of all, the smell gives me a damn headache,” Danny says, fingers gripping the wheel tight. Now that Frank’s paying more attention he can see the subtle shift in the older man’s features- his brows are joined and his nose is slightly flared. “And, second, I'm being conscious of your health. I just don’t see the appeal of voluntarily giving yourself lung cancer.”</p><p> Frank chuckles, causing Danny to give him a look of confusion. </p><p>“You’re really taking this teacher thing seriously, huh?” The older man huffs out a sigh. </p><p>“I never said I was your teacher.” </p><p>“You don’t need to say anything. The fact that you took me under your wing and shit, after, y’know, stabbing me in the leg? <em>Teaching</em> me all about how you operate? You said it yourself, buddy- you <em>trust</em> me now.” Danny shakes his head with a humouring roll of his eyes. </p><p>“I see myself in you. That doesn’t make me your mentor.” <em> And that doesn’t mean I </em> trust <em>you, </em>is unspoken but implied. He has enough faith in Frank not to tattle on him; that doesn’t mean he wants him to take up the mantle of the Ghostface just yet. Frank considers that for a moment, mulling over the hypothetical double-edged blade that looms precariously over his head. </p><p>“Would you prefer… Partner?” He tries to keep the hope out of his voice. It’s instead replaced with petulant pageantry, a cheeky smile tugging at his lips. He knows Danny doesn’t want to share in the glory of his Ghostface murders; his planning, his preparation, each and every peek into the lives of unsuspecting strangers who would soon find themselves at the end of his knife. Those are his and his alone. But the glint that passes through Danny’s eyes is anything but offended. It mirrors Frank’s own, clever and dwindling and sardonic. </p><p>“I’m not sure if I would be willing to go that far, either. Not much of a partner yet when all you do is film.” That comment makes Frank decidedly less playful. A tiny twitch of his nose gives way to obvious frustration. </p><p>“Thought that’s what you wanted me to do.” </p><p>“You made an assumption,” Danny says.</p><p>“<em>You </em> handed me the camera.” Frank deadpans. The older man shrugs, eyes still on the road, though his fingers flex and shift on the wheel. </p><p>“I could’ve gone by myself.” That’s true. He could’ve done a lot of things- kept him handcuffed to the bed, or better yet, killed him a long fucking time ago.  </p><p>“I guess…” He hates backing down, especially when he has some merit in an argument. If Danny wanted him to step forward and take part in Veronica’s murder, he would’ve made some indication of it… right? Or was that part of his fucked up test? “So-” He considers his next words with practiced care. “What do you say about next time?” </p><p>Danny offers him an exaggerated tilt of his head and an overly-solicitous hum. Frank resists the urge to jeer. </p><p>“What about next time?” The older man sings.<em> He’s trying to play another game, </em>Frank notes, letting out a hissed noise of quiet incredulity. Unfortunately for Danny, he isn’t in the mood.</p><p>“You know what I mean.” He doesn’t feel like he has to say it so flippantly. Maybe a part of him is in the mood to withhold, however; dance around the very thing Danny wants to hear.<em> Next time…  </em></p><p>A second passes. They cross below a bridge, curtaining them in a small gap of darkness safe from the blinding afternoon sun. Then, Danny grabs his thigh- a quick but firm squeeze that makes Frank sit up, startled. It’s a clear, possessive action that resonates even after his hand returns to the wheel and grips just as tight.</p><p>"You don’t have to be a brat about it. It was a simple question, <em>dear.</em>" The ‘dear’ continues to take him off guard. Danny’s use of pet-names is as charming as it is vicious, striking him both in the heart and the gut. Ew.</p><p>“I’m not-” Frank begins, looking back to the road. He shakes his head reflexively. “A <em> brat. </em> Stop calling me that. Let me... kill ‘em, alright?” Why is he asking? He shouldn’t have to ask for shit. Frank takes. He can’t afford to wait for things to fall into his lap.</p><p>Perhaps it's because he wants this to be different. He wants this to be the sort of pact he can use to tie them together rather than drive them apart, as his Legion decided was best despite his efforts; he can see Susie crumbling like ash, eventually. Maybe even Joey, who Frank knows is far more guilt-ridden than he tended to lead on in his presence. Julie, however… </p><p>Frank’s used to clean slates. He’d been the new kid for years, passed from home to home in spite- or because of- his consistent meltdowns and rebellious episodes. He’d been given his chances, sure, but every time he tried to start again he’d found himself pulling a losing hand. Shitty, money-hungry fosters, trouble paying attention in school when he even bothered to attend, or just his apparent penchant for trouble alone. He thought he’d finally found his lucky break in the form of Julie Kostenko and her underclassmen. Salvation, the three of them, pulling him up and out from under the rubble and ashes of ruinous small-town Alberta despite the fact that he'd been the one to set the flames.</p><p>Unfortunately, the cosmos- God- whatever, had different plans.</p><p>Maybe Danny’s just another clean slate. Or, perhaps, he’s the last chance that Frank’s been waiting for. </p>
<hr/><p>Peter Kowalczyk wakes in his bed drenched in a layer of sweat. His room feels cold, despite the July heat. Tired eyes flick to the pale mustard curtains lining a picture window, swaying gently in the wind. A series of pine trees stand proud across the street, their black silhouettes flashing a vibrant sage of fluttering needles.</p><p>His wife Lisa lay at his side, turned toward him with her eyes shut gently. Her bare shoulders are pale in the moonlight, her tank top sticking to her slender back. Waves of gold curls sit loose upon the top of her head in a ponytail, cascading down in fine, thin strands. Her fingers are curled around the cotton sheets, softly gripping as she breathes, otherwise dead to the world.</p><p>The alarm clock sitting on their nightstand reads as twenty past three in the morning. Peter lets out a sigh before quietly slipping out of bed and the room, closing the door softly behind him, noting a hitch in Lisa’s breath as she sighs and curls further into the mattress.</p><p>He reaches the kitchen, his white t-shirt almost drenched around the underarms from the night terror he’d been stirred from. Reaching the sink, he pours himself a glass of water, before leaning up against the counter and sucking down a deep, laboured breath.</p><p>This is all very routine for Peter. He’s prone to night terrors, especially around this time of year when he doesn’t know what to do with himself. As a high school English teacher, he’s used to burying himself in his work, grading papers with cringe-worthy syntax late into the night. As tedious as it was, reading essays written by teenagers who could give less of a shit about Dickenson or Frost sometimes proved to be both insightful and, more often than not, entertaining. Certainly beats sitting on his ass while Lisa works through her residency program. Then, of course, there’s the time-old matter of money.</p><p><em> Summer school’s always an option, </em>he thinks, taking another sip of his water. He stands across from the door overlooking their modest porch. Their two-bedroom bungalow is far from private, but he enjoys the noises of domesticity that usually radiate throughout the neighbourhood. But not so much now that the sun has set and the crickets are chirping.</p><p>It’s then that he notices a car parked outside, stalled just in front of the bungalow across the street.</p><p>Two figures stand under a street lamp leaned up against the silver Toyota, their backs too shadowed by the gloom to make out any other defining features. One is shorter than the other- slimmer, with their hood up and a leather jacket popped up across their shoulders. The one on the left is tall and fit, his featureless head canted backward.  He walks closer to the door, then, to the blinds, parting them to get a better look. Then, within a near blink, the car roars to life, headlights flickering erratically before speeding down the street and into the night. </p><p>He shrugs to himself, stepping back and stretching his shoulders. That was… weird, he thinks, walking soundlessly back to the bedroom with his glass of water in hand. A strange thing to brush off, but his mind quickly rationalizes it as a couple of teens smoking a joint outside of their English teacher’s house at three o’clock in the morning.</p><p>Peter cracks the door open slightly, allowing a stream of light from the hallway to break through that of the pitch-black room. </p><p>Lisa’s not awake, but she’s tossed back to the other side of the bed. She’s always been restless- it’s one of the many things they have in common. In college, they’d spent long evenings together staying up far too late past curfew, drinking smuggled-in wine and kissing one another on the floor of her dorm room. Her hair was purple back then, and his was dyed with interwoven chunks of blonde. Frosted <em> fucking </em> tips. They used to be cool. </p><p>He takes a step toward her and, with a tender stroke of her cheek, presses a kiss to her brow. He rests his glass of water beside the alarm clock, untangles his fingers from Lisa’s hair, and starts digging through the nightstand. </p><p>An hour after dry swallowing a valium, Peter is sleeping soundly, his nerves calm enough to lull him into a dreamless respite.</p>
<hr/><p>Frank’s ass hurts. It’s been a long drive; the sun went down hours ago, and they’ve only stopped for burgers once, coffee another, and twice to take a piss. His legs are starting to cramp, too- almost as bad as they had when he was sitting in bed all day. </p><p>He’s smoking the last cigarette in the pack Danny had bought him. Earlier on, the older man had refused to pull over so he could buy him another one. Even when they did stop for gas eventually, it was on Frank to use his nonexistent money to pay for his vice. </p><p>The car is filled with the hiss of a lighter- a soft inhale, a soft exhale. Thick tendrils of smoke swirl out in time with his breath.</p><p>“You said it gives you headaches?” Frank speaks, a measure of questioning in his tone. He understands finding it annoying, but migraines are a bit of an exaggeration. </p><p>Danny sits beside him, not as restless, but slightly agitated. Earlier on he’d swallowed a couple of pills from an unmarked bottle and downed the rest of his coffee from their earlier stop in tandem. </p><p>“Yes. I thought I got that point across clearly.” His voice is mumbled as if he’s speaking for Frank alone. His grey eyes have yet to leave the house, studying the exterior of it with an unyielding gaze It's unnerving. "Lots of things give me a headache. Like you, for example."</p><p>“That got anything to do with this?” Frank’s eyebrows raise somewhat as if to signify smarmy rebellion. He brings his hand, the one that isn’t holding his cigarette, upward to rub deftly across his brow. It’s where his skin would map to Danny’s if he had his scar- a slight fleck of ivory that, while evident, has definitely faded with time. Danny gives him a cursory glance before pointedly looking away, shaking his head. </p><p>“Do you have to keep asking questions?” He’s beginning to sound slightly more annoyed. <em> Touchy. </em></p><p>“No. I’m just trying to make conversation,” Frank responds, huffing through his nose. He thinks about snubbing the cigarette out onto the lawn but promptly realizes that would be a pretty shit waste of a barely-smoked cigarette. Instead, he taps it against the cupholder, snuffing it enough so that the smoke dies down. “They aren’t gonna be doing anything this late, Dan. It’s two o’clock in the fucking morning.”</p><p>“You don’t really think it’s just about knowing them, do you?” Danny questions, exasperated, before pausing. He extends a hand, pointing out toward the house. “If all we wanted was to learn about <em>them,</em> we wouldn’t have noticed that the window there has a broken pane.” Frank’s brows furrow as he sits up a little in his seat, eyeing the property. He’s right; there’s a fracture line across the windowpane and a gap between the frosted glass.</p><p>“Why’s a broken window so interesting?" Frank sits up completely. He feels like his ass is making an indent on the seat. "Listen to yourself, man. We could just head in there and kill them now if we wanted to. Or do you get off on all this creepy stalker shit alone?"</p><p>And with that, Danny’s concentration breaks. He glances away from the house and meets eyes with Frank, annoyance plainly written across his features. It feels like staring down the barrel of a gun.</p><p>“Because that’s not how Ghostface <em> works, </em>Frank.” He knows Danny’s obsession delves deeper than just wanton killing. It’s something untamed and primal and wanting- taking. It’s the force that leads Frank to grab at his wrists and yearn to tear them apart; an impulse that Danny’s managed to tamp down into an easily exploitable bottle filled to the brim with bellicose hues and silverite chunks. “And if you have a problem with it, I suggest you get out of my car before your cancer stick melts the cup holder.”</p><p>Frank tells himself he doesn’t feel like a dog that’s been berated. He blames the twitch of his nose on the fact that he’s actually really tired of being dragged around like he’s on a leash- and, fuck, does he <em>really</em> want to sleep in a bed. </p><p>He takes one last long drag of his cigarette- again, mostly out of spite- and steps out through passenger side door, slamming it on his way out. He leans up against the car, his back to Danny, facing away from the bungalow. Suddenly, his nails seem very interesting. He begins picking at his cuticles, dusting away the grit and grime.</p><p>A minute later Danny follows. He softly opens and closes his door, walking a whisker's length away from Frank with his arms crossed over his chest. He’s wearing another thermal sweater, but that alone doesn’t seem to quell the chill he feels that Frank cannot. His shoulders shake slightly in time with the wind. He’s quiet and unmoving as if waiting for Frank to explain his little outburst, gazing up and down the street and taking stock of the neighbouring cars. Frank's alright with talking it out, he supposes, but most of all, he wants to rest.</p><p>There’s still exhilaration within him, of course- he’s stalking potential victims of the <em>Ghostface Killer</em> with the man himself. But the sickness of it is wicked and overwhelming; not the fear of being caught, but the realization that he has absolutely no chance at deniability now. He’s <em>planning </em>to kill. “I’m… sorry, I guess. Must smell pretty rank to you, huh?”</p><p>“Yeah. It does. You’re buying next time," Danny speaks his words as a declaration, not a matter of debate. </p><p>“Whatever." He'll worm it out of Danny’s wallet regardless, likely through physically withdrawing it from his pocket. Typical behaviour from him, sadly- a plan for another night. For now, he drops his cigarette and tamps it out below his foot, rubbing it into the pavement. "... Thanks." He might as well play a bit more polite since they're on 'good terms' now. Since they're working together- since they’re <em>partners. </em></p><p>Danny looks down at the crushed cigarette.</p><p>"What else have you noticed?" Frank asks, voice hushed. He tries to sound slightly more attentive, like he actually gives a shit about Danny’s supposed ‘gift’ to him and isn't just complaining so that he can take a nap in the back seat. He cranes his neck to look back at the house. It’s nothing special; one story, one bedroom, one busted up car in the front. Cheap and reliable. "Tell me what you see, Ghostie."</p><p>Danny’s silent at first, in the way that he usually is- he’s meticulous and manic in equal measure, and at this moment he seems entirely too keen on the former. “Their screen door isn’t latched properly.” He notes. Frank scans the door, twisting so that he can face it better. It’s slightly ajar and could easily be ripped open by a modest gust of wind. “So I assume they don't lock their doors. Quiet neighbourhood that never gets much trouble. They feel safe." </p><p>“Just another reason why we could stroll on in right now.” Frank is, in part, goading the other man at this point. To him, it’s mostly ribbing, though he can see why Danny would take it so seriously. This is his life’s work on the line- his paragon, golden and glistening. “You think they got a gun in there or something? Yappy little dog?” </p><p>“They could. I don't know yet. All I have is an address and some names… faces.” He chuckles to himself, dark and sharp. There’s still a hint of slight chagrin in his tone, but it’s faded over with his self-made moment of personal intimacy.  “Nice faces. Cute couple. That’s why I need to come back again, so I can dig a little bit deeper."</p><p>“Cool.” A short reply, mostly due to the fact that his poking hasn't riled Danny up too much yet and he might as well quit while he's ahead. He looks back toward the house one last time- only to jump and grab at the older man’s shoulder. "We've got company."</p>
<hr/><p>A CTV News anchor stares toward the camera with stern features, her hands steepled on her desk overtop sheets of faux-paperwork. A bulletin appears in bold text, scrolling across the bottom of the screen- <b>25-YEAR-OLD DAUGHTER OF DEPUTY MAYOR FOUND DEAD IN CROSSFIELD HOME. </b> The woman turns to face the camera completely as it zooms tight around her face. Her hair is expertly curled and her pantsuit’s undershirt is unbuttoned enough to reveal a modest strip of her cleavage.</p><p>“Good afternoon. This is Rebecca Gomez, checking in with our top stories of the evening.” The intro tune chimes out, replaced by static quiet. “Upsetting news today from Crossfield, Alberta. Police have released a statement regarding the murder of twenty-five-year-old AUA student Veronica Marsh, disclosing that her death was likely the result of a wayward break-in attempt.” Stock footage of a nearby vestibule plays, before switching to recorded rushes of a series of police vehicles parked outside of a three-story gray-bricked Colonial. Red and blue lights flash across its impressive height, shadows licking at the walls in long dark streaks.</p><p>“Marsh’s body was discovered inside of her home on Thursday afternoon following a wellness check. The victim’s parents-" The droning doesn’t stop. She says something about a vigil. Pretty girl, nice family- if she were anyone else they wouldn’t even bother. Frank isn’t all that interested, despite the subject matter being a murder he helped orchestrate- he’s far more focused on Danny. </p><p>Said man sits with his back against the headboard of their motel bed while Frank’s legs dangle off the end of the mattress. It’s a single queen this time- Frank hadn’t felt the need to protest.</p><p>As the broadcast continues, Danny seems to grow increasingly more agitated, though he’s clearly trying to hide it. If Frank were less adept at reading people, he’d likely ignore the man’s shuffling and the incessant tapping of his pen against his journal’s closed cover. </p><p>The broadcast ends. There is no mention of the Ghostface- there’s barely even mention of the murder itself. The focus was on Veronica, her life, her achievements- Valedictorian, top of her class, beautiful and promising and perfect for the role of <em>victim </em>as Danny had surmised to him before. </p><p>The TV turns off with a deafening click. Danny holds the remote in his extended hand, knuckles whitening with the pressure he brandishes it with. Frank’s features soften when he realizes that the older man is <em>upset</em>. He doesn’t look like he’s on the verge of tears- far from it if the slight twinge of aggression in his eyes is anything to go off of- but it’s the same face of inquisitive despondency he’d given when Frank refused to beg for his life while tied up underneath that elm tree.</p><p>Frank recognizes that anger bubbling underneath the surface, but Danny clearly has enough skill in maintaining his emotions to keep it from spilling over.</p><p>“Not what you were expecting?” Frank says flatly. Danny’s eyes don’t leave the TV as it buzzes with a dying, stuttering heat. His jaw is clenched, and the tapping has stopped. He’s more than upset. He’s <em>disappointed. </em></p><p>“Wasn’t much of a debut for you.” He looks toward Frank now, a torpid shade of blankness threatening to overtake his pale silver eyes. His five o'clock shadow looks more like a six o’clock, tiredness returning to his formerly manic visage. Frank decides he isn’t the biggest fan of this version of Danny, ragged and spread too thin. He’s hiding his thoughts, and he’s doing it well. “Which is why we’re getting acquainted with the Kowalczyks.”</p><p><em> Debut. </em>That’s… an interesting way of putting it, but he postulates that Danny is right. Veronica was his second chance at a big break. His first had been with Julie, waiting for their chance to show the world what they’re made of with him patiently sitting at her side, biding their time for the day they talked about the missing janitor, his body still frozen below the frost of Mount Ormond. It's summer now, and the nameless man they’d buried under cold, damp dirt is food for the worms. </p><p>He curls up on the bed, facing Danny.</p><p>“That mean I get to tag along again?” Frank asks. As soon as he does, Danny gets off the bed, causing the shitty mattress to bend upward under his missing weight. He pockets his journal, eyes now ostensibly focused on the door. <em> God. </em> He’s boring when he’s sad.</p><p>“No. Not this time. Stay here, grab a drink from the mini-fridge…” <em> Thank God, </em>Frank thinks. He doesn’t have to mould a car seat to his ass. Danny fishes into his pocket, pulling out a thick wallet followed by a crisp twenty-dollar bill. He puts it on Frank’s lap, gingerly gripping his thigh before walking off toward the door. Frank cranes his neck and middle to follow, grabbing the twenty and shoving it in his pocket. “Order yourself a pizza.”</p><p>“You're…” <em> Leaving me alone again. </em> He knows Danny trusts him enough to do so now, but it’s still baffling. “Not gonna hogtie me this time, right?” He says with jest, a valiant attempt to crack Danny’s frigid mood. It doesn’t work. The man glances toward Frank as he grabs his jacket from off the bathroom door. Other than a raised eyebrow, he shows no hint of a smile or his typical smarmy grin. </p><p>“Do you <em>want </em>me to tie you up? I still have rope in the car.” Frank curls his nose.</p><p>“What am I supposed to do, anyway? Sit around until I get a blood clot?” He flops over onto his back where Danny had settled before, arms resting languidly behind his head. Said man rolls his eyes as he pulls his jacket on, grabbing his car keys off the TV stand along with the room key. There’s only ever one between them, and it’s only ever in Danny’s possession. </p><p>“Be my guest. But if you can survive for an hour, I’ll bring you back some smokes.” He says, before promptly opening and closing the door behind him with a slam that makes Frank flinch.</p><p>He glances toward the twenty, then thinks of the payphone he’d seen outside.</p><p>An hour. Frank has an hour.</p>
<hr/><p>Peter Kowalczyk doesn’t wear cologne, which is why it’s odd that his wife compliments him on his when she returns from her shift that evening, her eyes tired and her smile broad.</p><p>They’re sitting together on the couch, Lisa’s head leaned up against his shoulder watching some late night TV. He skips past the news channel- there’s something morbid being rehashed about a young girl’s murder, which he decides is more than enough to put a damper on their mood- and settles on an episode of<em> Friends. </em> </p><p>Courteney Cox prattles on about some impromptu hijinks while Peter tucks his arm around Lisa’s shoulders, pulling her into a tight, loving squeeze. She sniffs his neck and giggles, girlish and sweet as a laugh track plays alongside static from the television speakers.</p><p>“You smell nice, Petey.” She says, burrowing her nose into his neck. He chuckles in return, quiet and fleeting, trying to work the nerves out of his voice before he speaks.</p><p>“I haven’t showered yet.” He replies, maneuvering his hand around her shoulders to play absently with her blonde locks. Lisa hums, content, though the torpidness of her body is clear in how she slumps further into his broader frame. She’s so... soft, and slight in his arms. Delicate.</p><p>When they were in high school he used to worry about breaking her if he hugged her too tight. He’s markedly less worried now that he knows what she’s capable of. Despite her short stature and lithe build, she can be tough as nails when she needs to be.</p><p>His eyes draw away from the screen and instead focus on his wife. He tries to ignore the slowly encroaching beat of his heart as it jumps up into his throat.</p><p>“The cologne helps, then. Smells like… lavender.” He bombinates softly to cover his uneven breaths as she takes in another breath that turns into a sigh of contentment. “How d'you know I like lavender?” </p><p>“You told me once, a while back. Thought I’d try it.” He replies, fixing a (hopefully) charming grin on his face. She seems to accept that, and if the slow fluttering of her eyelashes has anything to say about it, she’s likely too tired to propose a counter-argument, regardless. “I don’t hate it.”</p><p>Eventually, she falls asleep like that, limp in his arms. He scans over her pale neck, her fine, dainty features- the dark circles that line her under-eyes.</p><p>He needs to stop at the drugstore tomorrow and buy the first cheap lavender-scented cologne he can get his hands on. </p>
<hr/><p>Frank stands outside the motel, a slight twilight breeze flicking over his bare legs. He stands before a payphone in a pair of basketball shorts and a grey, threadbare hoodie. Currently, Danny is sleeping soundly in their shared bed.</p><p>He’d checked before he left- leaned into Danny’s form, felt his breath tickle against the base of his neck. He hadn’t responded after a gentle shove and a whisper of his name, and Frank decided that was enough to declare him dead to the world.</p><p>He slots a couple of dimes into the payphone, then thumbs a series of numbers into the pad. The clicks sound out loud into the night, echoing down the street and cutting through the cloying darkness. He tenses as the phone rings, as if he’s expecting something- or someone- to step out of the shadows. </p><p>Danny never explicitly told him off of contacting people. It’s not as if he could’ve expected him not to make a call or two, eventually, especially since he’d left him alone with a twenty-dollar bill and access to a phone. He’s meticulous like that- every facet of his life has been mapped out according to a surreptitious schedule.</p><p>She picks up on the second ring. He can hear the scratching of a pen against a pad. The familiar noises of sketching, doodling something vague and loose.. something Julie won't like in the morning no matter how perfect it looks to anyone else. </p><p>“Hello?” Her voice is perfect and fathomless- satiny yet rough, soft with a serrated edge.</p><p>“Jules." <em> Julie.  </em></p><p>“You called?” She says. It’s curt but languid. He can tell she's high from the first syllable.</p><p>“You sent me to voicemail before. You busy, or just didn't wanna talk to me?" He hates how fragile he sounds, an easy juxtaposition to his usually confrontational tone. He tries to convince himself that he’s just tired.</p><p>"Just didn’t feel like it." There’s more scribbling in the background, quick and erratic despite her colouring. She sounds like she’s holding something back, tight in her throat. It’s trying to ease its way out but he can clearly visualize her biting her tongue.</p><p>"We don't talk for a month and you send me to voicemail." He continues, forcing himself to use a charming, teasing voice. He’s trying to bring himself back, the Frank she knows; the adamantine leader she’d met at a greasy spoon and fallen in love with. "You listen to it at least? Said some pretty heartfelt shit." </p><p>"Maybe." More scratching, followed by the audible tearing of paper. He’d tried to convince her to keep every little doodle and sketch that had been born from her hand, but never managed to keep her to it. She tears up pieces she doesn’t like. Eventually, likely due to the deafening reticence, she breaks. "Frank-” She sighs. He hears her shuffle in bed, then the flick of a lighter. “This is a stupid fucking question, but… are you okay?" </p><p>He hadn’t sounded okay.</p><p><em> “Hey. It’s Frank.” Duh. She knows his voice better than anyone. “I… haven’t made it to Calgary yet. We-” he cuts himself off again. He looks back and forth, toward the motel’s vestibule, which is empty save for a single old man in a hat reading a newspaper. It reads the following— </em> <b> <em>“THE GHOSTFACE KILLER — MAN OR MYTH?” </em> </b> <em> The finer print is too small to read, but he scoffs regardless. He’s a man. He’s just a man. “Made a few stops along the way. Just wanted to touch base. See how you’re doing.” He sounds like he’s begging. “See how you’re all doing.”</em> I miss you guys,<em> he doesn’t say, but the words echo in his ears as if he had. </em>I miss you guys a lot.<em> “I’ll see you, Jules. Keep taking care of shit back home for me, okay?”  </em></p><p>She can always tell when he’s lying. Julie could always read him like an open palm, despite his best efforts.</p><p>He gives her a dwindling, ragged laugh. He doesn't <em>know </em>if he's okay. Physically, he’s far better than he was just a week ago; his injuries have healed completely and have left behind a thick layer of pale pink and ivory scars. But Julie’s voice brings back the gravity of the situation that exists above the physical. He'd begun travelling with a serial killer across southern Alberta unwillingly, and now, tied together by rope threaded with a dead woman’s blood, they’re making plans to kill again. </p><p>Veronica’s pretty pink face flashes in his mind's eye. It reeks of death, monistic and taunting as he listens to Julie breathe on the other end. She was an artist, too. Did she ever hate the things she drew? Did she tear her sketches apart while stoned off her ass?</p><p>Did she find herself regretting it after, sitting in the middle of a pile of paper and charcoal? He’d felt… <em> vexed </em>when she'd drawn him, drinking coffee in a greasy spoon just like Julie had, and watching her die had been cathartic and freeing. </p><p>Fuck.</p><p>“Are you safe?” She continues despite his reserve. There's a slight hint of panicked breathing on her end that’s barely discernible. </p><p>"I don't know." And he <em>really </em>doesn't know. Danny's tumultuous and erratic. He does things in a pattern, but it's one that Frank has yet to completely ascertain. “I don't even know where I <em> am, </em> Jules.”</p><p>“Fuck, Frank. Can you… find out where you are? I’ll grab Joe and we can pick you up. We can bring you home.” He grabs the phone wire, wraps it around his finger and tugs at it. He’s nervous. Something's boiling. He feels it tight and raw in his chest, threatening to overflow, thick and full like a pot left boiling on the stove. He really doesn't want to cry, but he... he <em>sniffles</em>, like a child.</p><p>"I don't know if you can. I mean, I guess I'm in Calgary. Fifteen minutes away from the city, tops." He tugs the wire again and wipes at his eyes, fighting his emotions back enough to force a straight face.</p><p>"Flag down a cop, even. They can take you home, right? They do that sometimes.” She sounds desperate. Those are the last words he hears spoken by Julie Kostenko, the first true love of his life before their conversation is cut short by a smarmy, impatient tone.</p><p>"Who's Jules?" The line falls silent, forcefully disconnected. Frank whips to the side. Danny stands beside him, looking expectant. He’s wearing a pair of flannel pyjama bottoms, arms crossed over top of his t-shirt clad chest.</p><p>If he didn’t know any better, he’d liken him to a disappointed father, and Frank can't help but look like a teenager who he’d caught stealing from the liquor cabinet. It's his instincts taking over as his heart jumps up into his throat- <em> Deny, deny, deny... </em>Frank’s eyes meet the ground. The breeze picks up, sending the surrounding hedges that line the parking lot into a gentle flurry.</p><p>“Can't a guy make a damn phone call?” He mumbles. He isn’t looking Danny in the eyes, but part of him expects them to look either blank or furious. He can’t decide which is more worrying.</p><p>"Sounded like more than just a phone call.” He sounds vacant- deadpan. “You never answered my question." </p><p>Frank bites his lip so hard he tastes blood. He doesn’t want Danny to know his Legion even exists. Those red sparks in the man's eyes are back, fervent and animal, nearly shaking with withdrawn anticipation. It makes his heart seethe with the wind. It will never be what he had with his Legion, but it will never be lesser than, either- the two are on completely different playing fields. He’d convinced himself that, eventually, he could have both. Apparently not. He feels his nose twitch.</p><p>"Julie. Girl back home. We, uh... we were dating. For a while." He doesn't know what else to say. It's not like he'd been ratting him out. He isn’t dumb. If he was, he’d be halfway through digging his own grave already. </p><p>Danny hums, evidently unsatisfied with his answer. A measure of silence passes between them. </p><p>"What were you talking about?" Danny implores, his incandescent visage unchanging. </p><p>"She was..." He shouldn't have to be having this conversation. He shouldn't have to feel scared to call up his friends. He's a partner, not a captive. So, he shrugs, easing up and meeting Danny’s silver eyes. They soften faintly as he does. "Curious. About what I've been doing." <em> Worried </em>is a more accurate term. </p><p>Danny seems to accept that. He suspires and turns on his heel. He walks toward the motel, hands in his flannel pockets, and Frank’s brows furrow. <em> That can’t be it.</em></p><p>He’s proven right when the man peers over his shoulder, his glare growing softer by the second.</p><p>"That why you were almost crying?”</p><p>Frank stills. His breath catches in his throat. He wants to say what he'd said to Julie- <em>‘I don't know'.</em> Instead, he scoffs, blinking away the remnants of tears in his eyes. “I wasn't...”</p><p>Danny stands there, silent as the night. Then, he turns on his heel again and takes a step forward, his powerful arms wrapping around Frank tight and pulling him into what would otherwise be a comforting hug. Frank freezes up, stiff as a board.</p><p>"You don’t have to act like such a tough guy around me," Danny mutters, mellow and dulcet. It doesn’t quell the hitch in his shoulders. He does have to act like a tough guy around Danny. Or, at least, he had to. If he didn't put on his little act, Danny would've left him under that elm tree to bleed out and die.</p><p>With Danny's arms around him, strong and tight and all-consuming, his shoulders eventually slump, and, like a rag-doll, he keens into his grasp. He rests his head on Danny's shoulder and lets the tears that cloud his eyes fall. They stick to his eyelashes, tenacious and wet, before dripping down onto Danny’s sleeve.</p><p>"I miss them." <em>Them.</em> Suz, Jules, Joe. “My friends, back home. I hated that fucking place so goddamn much, Dan, but they…” Made it feel like a home that he ended up burning to the ground. Unlike his Legion, Danny continues to intimidate a part of him; the part of him that feels like a child, lost and wandering, the part that doesn't know where he is, what he’s doing. The Ghostface doesn't tell him shit, likely as a matter of precaution. He squeezes his eyes shut.</p><p>“Danny?” </p><p>“Yes, Frankie?” </p><p>"Are you going to kill me?" He trusts him. He trusts him. <em> He should trust him. </em>Danny’s quiet for far to long. That same part of his wavers. More tears fall.</p><p>"No." He sounds upsettingly genuine- more so than he ever has. "Are you going back to them?"</p><p>"No," He replies. Frank speaks the truth as well. He's found his calling with Danny- he has a direction now, found his bearings with the Ghostface and it goes far beyond simple infatuation. “But if I did,” He stops to sniffle. God, he hates crying. “Would you stop me?”</p><p>Danny breathes in deep, then exhales with zeal.  </p><p>"Maybe... I could." <em> He would. He’d kill you before you even stepped foot back in Ormond. </em>Frank nods to himself, into Danny's shoulder. He expected as much. Rather than feeling rage, he instead feels resigned to his fate in the most melancholy way; he isn't free, but in a way, this is the most unchained he's ever felt. </p><p>“You could. You would.” Frank says. For once, they’re on the same page. </p><p>Then, Danny kisses him. He bites at his lips, then slips his tongue between them, and in that fleeting moment, Frank swears on his mother’s grave that he can hear a microscopic, withdrawn clash- the faraway din of bricks falling and churning over crashing waves. In his heart, he knows it’s the sound of the bridge between his two worlds collapsing. </p><p>
  <em> You aren’t a God, Frank.</em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Romeo and Juliet Are Together In Eternity</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>tws for this chapter include a brief reference to child abuse &amp; references to drug use/abuse/death. please be safe and enjoy.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Richard’s road trip mix is coming to an end for what must be the fiftieth time, and Frank is restless. He fiddles with his lighter and plays with the flame, out of cigarettes until they find another gas station. The tape finishes with a Mother Love Bone song he hadn’t heard before now about two tracks ahead. This one, however, Frank knows by heart and not choice. His foster mother, one of the earlier ones, used to play it all the time. She had it on vinyl.</p><p>
  <em> You ever heard the story of Mr. Faded Glory?  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Say, he who rides the pony must someday fall… </em>
</p><p><em> Melody, </em> he remembers. She was a single lady who genuinely seemed like she wanted to help until Frank was taken away to his first, heavy quote-unquote, ‘forever’ home. He recalls a morning where she made him his first-ever batch of blueberry pancakes, and another where they danced in the kitchen while <em> Thriller </em>sounded throughout the condo from an old record player. </p><p>She worked a lot and that often left him to fend for himself, but she would usually toss in a neighbourhood babysitter. It wasn’t Melody’s problem that he’d decided to play with a kitchen knife while Jessica from down the hall flirted with her boyfriend over the phone, but when she came home to find him with a jagged cut across his lip haphazardly covered with a pink band-aid, she made it seem like it was. It was always- <em> is</em>, always easier for younger kids, especially when they’re still cute and have yet to grow into their rebellious phases. That isn’t to say he was an angel, but he was far more obedient than he is now. </p><p>He glances out toward the skyline as they drive down a hilly avenue, taking in the broad expanse of sun-bleached, concrete buildings. The colour of the sky matches that of the atmosphere; dreary and grey despite the summer heat. The only colours present are that of yellowing stripes of grass threading between the street and the sidewalk. </p><p>Something about Danny <em>not </em>humming along to pop music while he drives is disconcerting. He glances over and almost regrets it. Danny’s glaring at the road, his grey eyes slightly narrowed and his mouth curled up into a piqued frown. Frank decides to break the silence.</p><p>“You were in Seattle?” He asks. </p><p>“Sure,” Danny replies curtly. He doesn’t sound like he’s in the mood to talk. Tough shit.</p><p>“Always wanted to visit Seattle.” Frank continues. “Y’know, city of grunge? Mudhoney, Pearl Jam, Melvins… Mother Love Bone.” He gestures to the radio. <em> A bad moon's a-comin', better say your prayers, child, </em>it croons in return, sweet and melodic. Not his favourite. He’s always preferred heavier stuff.</p><p>“Thinking about becoming a rockstar?” Danny mutters. </p><p>“Fuck no,” Frank exclaims. The other man gives him a dubious look. “I mean, when I was a kid, yeah. But so did everyone and their mom.”</p><p>“Not everyone,” Danny’s fingers tap against the wheel. “I wanted to be a photographer.” Now it’s Frank’s turn to scoff. He looks over and gives Danny a smarmy grin. </p><p>"Hard to imagine you as anything but a psycho serial killer, if I'm being honest." Danny retorts.</p><p>"Hard to imagine you as anything but a… how do I say this politely… homeless junkie." <em> Ouch.  </em></p><p>"That wasn’t very polite," Frank rebuffs, fiddling with his lighter in his pocket as he sinks back into the seat.</p><p>"I'm just being honest.” Danny throws his words back at him. <em>Touche</em>. “And you’d be surprised by how unobservant most people are. You got into a car with me, after all.” </p><p>“You said it yourself; I was tired and hungry, and-” </p><p>“An idiot. But I don’t think you’re an idiot. Not anymore. And you don’t seem all that tired and hungry. You’re <em>still </em>getting into cars with me, and, Frankie-” He looks him in the eyes, taking them away from the road for a very brief moment.  “If you think I’m a psycho serial killer, I’d suggest taking a long look in the mirror. First, it was your friend back home, then it was Ronnie, now Pete and Lisa?” Danny lifts a hand, holding up his fingers- one, two… The other man clicks his tongue. “Three. You know lots about true crime, don’t you? Pop quiz. What’s this next stop going to make you?”</p><p>
  <em> I said a-come on, a-come on, come on, come on…  </em>
</p><p>He doesn’t want to end up like Cobain anyway.</p>
<hr/><p>Frank steps out of the car and closes the door behind him, holding a fiver Danny had given him between his thumb and forefinger. Danny steps out at the same time and goes for the gas pump, the setting sun framing him with subtle hues of orange and pink. Cicadas chirp alongside a cacophony of crickets. The wind is picking up- Frank runs his hand through his hair and feels the air stick to it like static. </p><p>“Just- get me a coke or something,” Danny says, popping the fuel filler open.</p><p>The 7/11 that flanks the fuel pumps smells like burning tires and gasoline. Frank’s nose twitches as he approaches a Slurpee machine, taking a large cup and filling it up to the top with blue slush. He grabs a coke from the fridge and pays for their drinks rather than trying to hide one away in his pocket. Not <em>his </em>money. </p><p>The only time he stops long enough for the smell to get to his head is when he notices a group of teenagers, three of them, leaned up and around the full-length window passing a cigarette between themselves. Their hoods are up, obscuring their faces as they converse across from what he assumes is their trashed silver pick-up truck. Smoke fills the air before dissipating into the hot ether. </p><p>After a second of observation, the tallest member of the group- a rugged, football player looking type- boards into the front seat. He’s wearing a varsity jacket that looks comically small on his near hulking frame. Frank recognizes the colours from a nearby high school that he would’ve likely attended had he not been taken away to Ormond. Green, and starchy white- <em> Saint Mary’s. </em> Catholic joint. Uniforms, priests, nuns in the hallways... the whole bit. With the Baptismal certificate sitting in his bag back at the motel, he wouldn’t have had trouble getting in- only trouble getting out. One thing he’s thankful for is Ormond’s lack of variety when it came to school districts. <em> Fairview into AU or bust. </em>People don’t ‘leave’ Ormond, especially in search of higher education. </p><p>Emblazoned across the back of his jacket is a name. <em> Hendrix, </em> it reads in bold stitched lettering. He knew a <em> Kevin </em> Hendrix, once, in middle school. He remembers the name and the face. Stocky and tall as fuck for a thirteen-year-old, he was hulking compared to late-growth-spurt Frank. Hendrix was a nasty son of a bitch, always getting into fights and spending more time in detention than he did at home. More so than even Frank himself, who, at the time, mostly stuck to defacing textbooks with colourful language and back-talking teachers. </p><p>This was before he knew that his name didn’t have to be a Christian one, and he didn’t have to wear a school skirt if he just told them his mother couldn’t afford it. With typical Catholic self-aggrandizing kindness, they tried to offer him some hand-me-downs from the main office, stowed away and musty. He complained enough about the mothball smell that they eventually gave in and decided it wouldn’t hurt to let him wear pants. </p><p>Kevin’s either in jail or college by now, though. <em> A little brother, maybe?  </em></p><p>The truck veers into the road and drives off at a blazing pace. </p><p>*</p><p>Peter wakes up on the couch to the phone ringing. It’s jarring enough to startle him upward into a sitting position, eyes wide and face alight with sweat. He takes in a deep breath, recovering from his ‘nightly terror’, as he’s come to dub it. His brow is drenched in sweat, and he claws at his chest, trying to dispel the feeling of breathlessness. The phone continues to ring. After another five seconds of processing, he tosses the blanket that covers him to the floor, nearly tripping over it in the process. He stands up in the dark, fumbling for the landline on the coffee table. He picks up the phone, and the silence that follows is pervasive. It continues until he remembers how to speak.</p><p>“Hello?” His voice teeters off into a yawn. </p><p>"Pete." <em> Ah. </em>The man on the other end of the line sounds drunk. Now Peter can hear that there's the sound of partying in the background, muffled voices and distant music.</p><p>"I told you not to call this number."</p><p>"Why? You worried your wife is gonna pick it up?" </p><p>"Eric, where the hell are you?"</p><p>"I'm at a bar. Thought you would be here. But you don't wanna head out while your wife is still in the house, right?” There’s a cacophony of cheering and a too-loud bassline from the other end. Peter huffs through his nose, now fully awake. He runs his hand over his face and hisses into the phone.</p><p>"You're drunk." Eric doesn’t dignify him with a response for a good five seconds. </p><p>“Worried she's gonna ask you where you’re heading off to?”<em> She'll find out about who’s throat you’re sticking your tongue down? </em> Is the implication. “Listen, Peter,” He trails off drunkenly, his voice thick with liquor. “I don’t care if you’re ashamed, or... <em> scared, </em>or whatever-”</p><p>“It’s not like that,” He mutters down the line. “I’m not-” He doesn’t finish his sentence, but he knows that he’s about to lie. </p><p>“You’re not what?” Comes from behind him. Quickly as he can, Peter slams the phone down on the hook, before he cranes his neck to face the figure of his wife who stands in the door with her arms crossed. She's in a t-shirt and boy shorts, oversized on her svelte frame. Peter turns around so that he’s facing her completely. She looks exhausted, the dark circles under her eyes smudges of black and pale violet. Her eyes are somewhat bloodshot, and her hair has been mussed into a loose ponytail, giving way to stray strands of white-blonde.</p><p>“It’s too late for this, Pete.” Despite her ragged appearance, Lisa’s voice is still as sweet and clear as a bell. She rubs at her eyes with the palms of her hands. “Who were you talking to?” </p><p>“Telemarketer,” He lies, and the words slip easily off his tongue. She doesn’t give him the courtesy of simply going back to bed. Instead, she takes another step forward, grabs the phone off the line and sighs once she realizes it’s dead. </p><p>“Telemarketers don’t call at three in the morning.”</p><p>“They do when they’re persistent.” He says, crossing his arms and standing up straight. She gives him a hurt look.</p><p>“I don’t like it when you hide things from me, Pete.” She says, sighing into her hand. She hangs the phone back up, quieting its monotonous, buzzing drone. He settles a hand on her hip and another on her thigh. She relaxes into the touch, resting her head on his chest and draping her arm around his shoulder.</p><p>“I’m not hiding anything.” He assures her, and for all he’s worth, he tries to sound honest. Because he loves her. He really does love her, and he needs her more than he needs anything in the world- and if he lost her, he wouldn’t know what to do with himself. This is why he has to keep lying until he can’t lie anymore. </p><p>“Do you promise?” She mumbles. It’s almost too quiet for him to hear.</p><p>“I promise.” He replies with a tedious smile that he buries into her hair. They stand there, pressed together still like limpets until she sighs and parts from him suddenly. It’s slow at first until she’s about halfway from his chest. Then, she pushes away, taking a step back toward the hallway. </p><p>There are tears in her eyes- they shine bright in the gloaming dark.</p><p>“Then why do you smell like cologne?” </p><p>“I-” He readies to defend himself, only to falter. He… <em> doesn’t </em>smell like cologne. As far as he’s concerned he spritzed a bit of the lavender junk he picked up at the drug mart two days ago on his wrist and never touched it again. He smells the air himself, attempting to detect any remnant of Eric’s signature lavender scent. </p><p>Peter’s gaze rises. </p><p>They aren’t alone. </p><p>“Lisa-!” He starts, outstretching an arm as he rushes forward- only for her to back further up into the intruder who stands just a whisper away from her in the doorway. The stranger is hooded, dressed all in black, and standing directly behind her. They’re wearing a mask. It’s grimy paper-mâché, etched with an eerie grin that’s smudged with dark red paint. In their hand is a ridged hunting knife that appears flat and matte in the shadows. </p><p>The world slows. He’s taken off guard faster than he can process. The feeling of arms wrapping around him from behind and crushing him into a broad chest fuels his struggling in time with a sudden burst of fear and adrenaline. A chin perches itself on his shoulder as he wriggles, his strength no match to that of his attacker’s. His arm is twisted into a firm and bruising hold.</p><p>“It’s <em> Davidoff Cool Water. </em> Far more expensive than whatever alibi Petey here settled on. A bit too... <em> fruity </em> for my taste.”</p><p>“Let her go!” Peter shouts, thrashing against the grasp that keeps him locked in place. He tries to wiggle his arm out enough to jab the form behind him with his elbow, only for a forceful squeeze to wrack through his shoulders, too tight for him to move more than a muscle. </p><p>“Do you love your wife, Peter?” A man’s voice- deep and thrumming, honied, almost- mumbles, low and to his ear. </p><p><em> “Let me go!” </em> He tries flailing again- tries using his legs- but his arm is twisted back further, causing him to cry out in pain. His tone veers on petulant frustration.</p><p>“I asked you a question. <em> Do you love your wife, Peter?</em>” </p><p>“Yes!” </p><p>“Then stop fighting. You’re built like a pencil.” The other intruder, the one with the smiley-face mask, finally speaks. He digs the blade further against Lisa’s throat. She visibly blanches. She isn’t screaming- she seems frozen in silent terror, her shoulders shaking minutely. “If you love your wife, you’ll answer the man.” </p><p>“I’m not answering any of your goddamn questions!”</p><p>“Wrong answer,” The man behind him says. He tilts his head, and a small sliver of blood drips down Lisa’s throat. “When’s Lisa’s birthday, Pete?” </p><p>“November 27th, 1966!” He answers. He can’t help but sound like he’s on the verge of tears. “She’s thirty-one years old, she was born in Rockyview General-” He says. He looks up, eyes trained on the knife that’s millimetres from Lisa’s throat. If he were paying more attention, he’d note the air of hesitation. He doesn’t know why he keeps prattling. He feels like a scared child. The knife is drawn away.</p><p>“When is... <em> Eric’s </em> birthday?” The man continues. Now it’s Peter’s turn to blanch. He pauses, biting his tongue, and feels something brush up against his shoulder. He cranes his neck to get a better look at his attacker. He’s wearing a mask, like his cohort, though this one is far more identifiable. He’d seen it on the news but his panicking mind can’t quite place it- an elongated scream trapped in ivory. He’s average, not tall, but his build is deceptive; he has power behind him, nearly immovable. Peter’s voice continues to shake.</p><p>“I- I, I don’t know an Eric!” He lies.<em> Tonight is Eric’s birthday. </em></p><p><em> "Tell him, Peter!" </em>Lisa exclaims, fear weaving through her cry. </p><p>“Strike two,” The man behind him says, and once again, the world flip-flops. The person behind his wife nods their head once, a slight tremor in their hand as it draws closer and closer to Lisa’s throat. Peter cries out, only for his mouth to be covered by a gloved hand. He bites down into the leather and the man behind him chuckles. That’s when Lisa, his beautiful Lisa, who never liked taking shit from anyone save for himself, elbows the man behind her in the stomach with enough strength to send him crumbling forward. </p><p><em> “Fuck! </em>You bitch!” The figure moans. Lisa smacks him over the head with her fist, and Peter hears a deafening <em>crack! </em>that cuts through the commotion. The figure's mask cracks into two halves like a glass plate, shifting just enough to expose what lay underneath. He’s… young. Baby-faced. Blonde. The guy doesn’t look a day over twenty-two, but his gaze is sunken and hollowed out. Peter can see a surge of rage enter him through his nostrils as they flare. </p><p>He looks<em> angry.</em> More ferocious, more turbulent than he's ever seen a man- full of choleric ire ready to burst at the seams. His eyes become bright with the spark of something inside shattering into pieces, much like the mask that sits in pieces in his wrapped hands. <em>Three meals away from chaos. </em> Is this a gang hit? Some kind of PCP-fuelled bender? </p><p>He doesn’t have much more time to consider before a sharp, metal edge pierces his ribs, right through his rapidly beating heart.</p><p>Lisa screams in horror, covering her face with her hands, giving the smaller figure a chance to scramble back up and grab her from behind, lifting her up with a surge of adrenaline. He’s taller and bigger than her but she’s tossing, panicking, and at that moment Peter both drops to the floor and claws at his chest and cries out her name in a panicked rush of spitting crour. </p><p><em>“PETER!”</em> She’s sobbing, hot wet tears dripping down her pale cheeks. “Oh, God! Please, <em> please </em>let me help him- I’m a nurse, I-” </p><p>The smaller intruder slits her throat in one swift motion and her body promptly falls to the carpet, silently clutching at her dying pulse.</p><p>“Strike three,” The man says. </p><p>The world fades to black for Peter Kowalczyk, and the stage curtains open for Frank Morrison. </p><p>
  <strong>*</strong>
</p><p>Frank can’t bring himself to look at the woman as she writhes on the floor, her fingers clutching her throat with slowly draining fervour. Neither does he focus on Peter, who’d nearly died on his knees, but now lays flat on his back with one arm stretched over and across his chest. He focuses his attention on Danny instead, who watches Lisa as a cat would a dying mouse lying beneath its extended claws. Finally, <em> finally, </em>she stills, croaking out one last suspiring moan. </p><p>Frank feels nothing but a bitter sense of irony. The bodies he’d seen before the three Danny had orchestrated were entirely accidental and… <em> brutal</em>. Being stabbed to death by four adrenaline-fueled teenagers with four different knives comes with a metric shit-ton of viscera. </p><p>But the last three have been almost expertly messy, like a crime of orchestrated passion crafted solely to grip the heart of a fearing, paranoid nation while keeping them yearning for more. This is the murder Danny has been looking for; the double homicide of a young, attractive couple from a big city with loads of connections and families that will grieve and people who will miss them and fuck, fuck, <em> fuck- </em>Frank is going to throw up all over the goddamn carpet.</p><p>Mask to toe, Danny hides in fresh, sticky blood. It’s highlighted by the moon cascading out from their two southern entrance points- the broken window and the porch, allowing them to meet in the middle and cut their victims off amid their argument. He had felt little sympathy for either of them in the actual disagreement, mostly because he would’ve just... <em>left.</em> Fuck the obligation of sticking around. If Peter were really unhappy enough in his marriage that he resorted to cheating, Frank sure as hell didn’t think he should’ve stayed around as long as he had.</p><p>Wait.</p><p>Why is he... <em> Analyzing </em>them? Like they’re characters in a play on a stage dancing for him, automatons as opposed to real human beings with feelings and thoughts and hearts and fuck... Did they have any kids? He doesn’t think he wants to know. Danny pushes the corpse of Peter away with his boot, tiptoeing around it as it limply falls into a curled position. The flannel robe he’d been wearing is soaked through with blood, too. </p><p>“Shame,” Danny starts, crossing his arms. “I wanted to draw that out a little longer.” Then he breaches the gap between them. He surges toward Frank and tears away the remnants of his paper-mache mask, streaking blood across his pale cheeks, his brown eyes blown out and wide. “How do you feel, sweetheart?” Danny asks, syrupy sweet.</p><p>“I, I-” Frank feels his hands shake. The first time had been borderline and accident- the second, well, there hadn’t been a second, had there? That was Danny. Danny chopped Veronica up into kibble and fed her to her fucking cat. This one… Well, he’d panicked, sort of, but he can’t blame first-degree murder on the fucking nerves. She was screaming and crying and he knew Danny would kill him, he’d gut him if he screwed this up, if he didn’t take his offered show of peace as half-freedom or go through with their planned double homicide. Frank feels his hands shake right down into the little bones of his wrists, vibrating on a cellular level. He drops his knife to the ground and moves closer toward Danny, putting his hands on each side of his mask as if asking for permission to lift it up.</p><p>“Shit…” Bloody fingerprints, streaks of russet dripping across ivory cheeks, both flesh and fictional. Danny grabs Frank’s wrists with gentle intent, helping him pull it off, his hood falling in the process as he tosses his head back. He has the same blown-out eyes, though, in contrast with Frank’s worried bite, a manic grin is set to cover most of his charming face. “Better when it’s planned, isn’t it?” He doesn’t wait for an answer as he pulls Frank closer, trapping him into his chest. “You did so well, baby. Such a good listener, followed exactly as I told you, and- now, look-“</p><p>“I think I’m gonna vomit.” He just got off of a roller coaster and the world is still moving too fast around him. He can feel his body want to collapse in on itself, buckle down onto his knees or sit on the floor, savouring the after-effects that come with taking the life of another (but can he say it’s truly savoury? Is this what it’s like to relish, or is this what it’s like to dread? The two often intertwine in the life of Frank Morrison).</p><p>“I’m not cleaning up after you again,” Danny says. He sounds kind despite his words, and he continues to pepper Frank in light, adoring touches, hands drawing down to hook him in at the hips. Frank hums and keens up against Danny, into his touches, dragging across his chest and his thighs and his sides. </p><p>“I’m good- I’m fine. I just...<em> Fuck,” </em> He flexes the tense muscles in his right hand. The touches are almost mindless now, machine rather than tender and exploratory. Danny brushes Frank’s hair out of the way and cups his face.</p><p>“We’re not done yet, Frankie. We’ve got to set the scene before heading home.” He whispers, just to him, and Frank steadies himself, nodding. He stoops down and grabs his knife back up, spinning it deftly with one hand. The blade is red. He wobbles to his feet. </p><p>They begin with moving the bodies. </p><p>Frank feels his entire body shake as he grabs Lisa by her underarms and drags her up onto the mattress, her body quiet and loose. Danny poses them both on the bed, their blood staining the white sheets, as Frank stands in the corner and stares at Danny rather than the macabre display. Danny continues to go through his checklist as Frank watches intently, noting every single move the older man makes. He wants to do it right next time, and he knows practice makes perfect. </p><p>He wipes down all the handles, all the bannisters, and then comes Frank’s ‘favourite’ part of the Ghostface’s signature.</p><p>They loot.</p><p>This is the part Frank has practice with- he knows what’s real, he knows what’s fake; he knows what’s worth stealing and what needs to be left alone. Frank assumes Danny is the same if his track record is anything to go by. There’s nothing exciting that Frank finds in the old wooden dressers of the Kowalczyk’s bedroom. There’s a fancy broach which Frank deduces is actually plastic and worth as much as play jewelry. That’s explicable; Danny doesn’t kill to steal. Rather, he steals in the kill’s aftermath, taking advantage of every opportunity.</p><p>He tastes rot in his throat. Most of what follows surfaces in a sort of blurry static, like it’s recorded through a wall rather than with a microphone directly up against one’s mouth. They’re both too quiet, the room is too dark, and he can’t pay attention to anything but the shaking in his hands.</p><p>Danny pokes around in the closet, and Frank stills, only to turn around completely as he pulls out a large bundle of cream-coloured fabric. It looks like a blanket, but as Frank moves closer, he realizes that it’s a coat.</p><p>Danny’s fingers have stained it with blood, though that isn’t something a wash can’t handle. Frank continues to stare at it before he grabs at the lapels with his own bloody digits.</p><p>“How much do you think this is worth?” It looks expensive. He delicately holds the coat up to Frank’s chest.</p><p>“You could fit in this.” He mumbles.</p><p>“I-” Frank begins, sounding doubtful with a half-smirk before he realizes Danny’s being serious. He doesn’t want to put it on. It’s ancient and painted with blood, and he’s just trying to pretend as if the woman it belonged to isn’t dead and propped up on her cushions ten feet behind him. “That’s some Ed Gein shit.”</p><p>“She doesn’t need it anymore. What’s so wrong with trying something on?” Maybe he wants to see Frank in something that isn’t hand-me-downs or thrift store jeans, and a woman’s fur coat will have to suffice. “We have time. I promise.” Something about the way he says that makes Frank believe him.</p><p>“I mean,” The principle of the thing? That they’re still in the dead woman’s house, her corpse ‘sleeping’ next to her dead husband’s just ten feet away? “Nothing. I just.. I’m gonna look like a fucking idiot.” He visualizes himself all bundled up in the thick fur coat with a bright red tuque in the middle of an Ormond winter. </p><p>“Come on. For me?” Danny walks closer, using a charming tone. Desperate, breathy.</p><p>“... Fine.” He’ll humour him.</p><p>Frank takes off his jacket and turns around, extending his arms so that Danny can put the coat over his hoodie. The other man steps away to give him a good look. Frank assumes he looks just as stupid as he’d thought if Danny’s expression is anything to go by. It feels hot and muggy, weighing him down into the floorboards.</p><p>“How do I look?” He says, giving a spin.</p><p>“We need to keep it,” Danny says, moving closer. Frank doesn’t have time to react as he extends his arms and slots them in between the gaps underneath the fur sleeves. He pushes him until Frank’s back is up against the closet door. With dream-like tenderness, he pins him there. Frank’s breath catches in his throat for what must be the umpteenth time. With Danny’s mask off, it’s hard to avoid the intensity of his stare, the danger that comes with it, unwittingly bold and inescapable. Frank has a history of going belly-up because of it. At least he’s self-aware. “I think that’d you look better if you were <em>only </em>wearing the coat,” Danny mutters, his breath up against Frank’s neck. He feels his pulse quicken. “I mean, this kind of fur should be felt against your skin. It looks vintage... Mink, or something.” Frank looks down and imagines that. Himself in a big fur coat, otherwise naked in Danny’s bed, laying comfortable and lux, spread out and waiting. Frank’s thoughts catch up to him too late for him to turn them around.</p><p>“Freak,” He says in return, settling his hands on Danny’s shoulder. He pushes away and starts taking the coat off roughly, about to shove it into the other man’s arms, only for Danny to chuckle. He keeps Frank flush to the door, one arm barred across his chest.</p><p>“But you like it, don’t you?” Frank lets out a huff.</p><p>“You don’t know shit about what I like.” Frank’s good at avoiding the truth, but that doesn’t mean he can keep it from a man who’s basically a living lie.</p><p>“I know you like being admired,” Danny rejoins. “I know you like being praised.” Frank doesn’t reply. He bites his tongue instead. Danny breathes through his nose. “I told you how perfect you would be.” He’s looking at Frank as if he’s his entire world, like his face is a thing to be admired despite- or rather, because of- its bloody cadence. Frank can feel his gaze evanesce on him like molten gold. “You looked like a King.” </p><p>Frank kisses him, and he feels like blades, piercing and tugging and twisting at his mouth. They pull Frank in every direction other than away and then, finally, as he slips his tongue through Danny’s slightly parted lips, feeling him from the inside out, he understands what it’s like to know that everything’s alright- and that he’s safe- and <em>goddamn </em>the world should be afraid of him.</p><p>Should be afraid of <em>them.</em> He hears a click- then, a bright white flash behind his closed eyes.</p>
<hr/><p>Frank Morrison was eight years old when he first saw a dead human being.</p><p>It was his mother. She overdosed on smack while he was at school. He likes to tell himself that it explains why he is the way he is. Mommy issues, daddy issues, big brothers who ended up in jail issues- all of those can be ushered away with the bomb-drop of, <em>oh, yeah, Angela? She OD’d in the bathroom. </em>And, yes, <em>maybe</em> he’s transferring blame. But it’s better than the rest of his childhood in comparison- a childhood full of shitty foster homes that were filled with too many needy children and not enough adults who cared.</p><p>It’s better to be a villain than a victim, and in his eyes, the origin story of ‘my mom died when I was eight and I found her body’ is far more concise and, decidedly less humiliating than, ‘I probably got touched a lot when I was a kid’, right? And he isn’t trying to be a martyr, either. God knows he’s far too selfish for that. He isn’t trying to prove anything, even though he covers his actions up with faux-philosophy and layers upon layers of justification that he honestly doesn’t believe in.<br/>
<br/>
<em>“Your mama’s in heaven now,</em>” an officer said to him as he sat across from her in the diner across from Hillgrove Place. He hadn’t understood what she meant yet, because he was eight years old and to him, heaven might as well have been another place on earth.<em> “You’re not gonna see her for a very long time, honey. Do you have anyone we can call? Your landlady said you didn’t have anybody on file.” </em>She sounded like she was talking to herself from far away, underneath a tankard of water. She might as well have been. Frank was too busy to pay attention, enveloped by the red and blue lights flashing across the street, clear in how he parts his gaze from hers, his chubby face laying in his arms.<br/>
<br/>
He didn’t respond. Instead, he’d fiddled with the spoon in his hot chocolate and asked her for another mug.<br/>
<br/>
That’s how he feels right now- like he’s sitting across the street from his childhood apartment complex with an empty feeling in his gut pervading throughout his middle and eventually swells into a rock-shaped contusion. He feels weighed down- like the past is breathing down his neck and feeling its tongue wet against his pulse.<br/>
<br/>
Danny is anything but silent in the driver’s seat.<br/>
<br/>
“I wanna dance with somebody… I wanna feel the heat with somebody…” He’s vibrating with energy, tapping his forefinger against the steering wheel. There’s a smile on his face and his grey eyes glisten along with the streetlights, slowly going brighter as they drive closer and closer toward the centre of the city.</p><p>Calgary whips past the windows, but rather than focus the city as it lights up, the shadows outside melting away into dawning light, Frank’s eyes zero in on a still-developing polaroid photo sitting on the dashboard.</p><p>The world around them shifts gradually into soft strokes of daylight.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. This is Shangri La</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>thank you very much for reading thus far if you have. enjoy the last chapter!<br/>feel free to follow me on twitter (@90skilled) or tumblr (voluspas)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Frank woke up exhausted the next morning. Danny forced him into the car at seven, which meant that he’d only gotten about an hour and a half of sleep. Now, he sits with his hand out the window, skimming through the air while they barrel down the highway. </p><p>They drive in silence- Frank thinks that if he heard another Mother Love Bone song, he’d poke his eardrums out. They don’t speak until they reach a truck stop with an adjoining diner hours later, fringed with the bustling highway. Frank can only hear car horns and the whirring of exhaust pipes, but at least the scent of something greasy and fried is promising.</p><p>“Want a coffee?” Danny asks as they find a parking spot. He looks and sounds cheery enough. “You seem kind of dead.”</p><p>Frank peers at himself in the wing mirror. His pale skin and messy blonde hair are stark against one of Danny’s form-fitting black t-shirts. He’d picked it up off the floor before they began haphazardly packing, tugging it on without hesitation, barely noting the once overpowering scent of sandalwood. When Danny holds him close or lays a hand on his shoulder, pulls him in for a tight embrace or roughly steals his lips for a kiss, the fragrance is no longer biting.</p><p>“Cream-”</p><p>“-And sugar,” Danny finishes before he steps out with a smile. He leaves his phone on the dashboard and his keys in the ignition. </p><p>It isn’t long before Frank’s attention is stolen away by a silver truck parked to their left. It’s not particularly exciting, and he wouldn’t have paid it any mind had it not resembled Joey’s Chevy. A little beat up, but Frank can tell it’s cared for; it’s clean and the only dents in it are on the back fenders. The windshield is fractured too. A small, spidering collection of lines and scratch marks are splayed across the right side. Just… like Joey’s. He’d driven into a snowbank two years ago, burying the front half of his ride, and while helping to shovel it out, Frank nearly took out the windshield. </p><p>It <em> is </em> Joey’s Chevy. </p><p>He sits up straight in his seat, his mouth drying and his chest filling with a timely thrum that works its way into his ears. They’re ringing. His hands are shaking, tiny little tremors forcing his fingers to buzz like they’re tied with live wires. Without thinking, he grabs Danny’s Nokia off of the dashboard and slowly dials a familiar number.</p><p>Julie picks up after the first ring. </p><p>“Hello?” She sounds tired. He can imagine her eyes bleary, full of sleep as she wipes at them with the back of an oversized flannel. She probably has a coffee beside her, piping hot and black... <em> “Hello?” </em> Julie repeats. He sucks in a breath.</p><p>“I killed someone, Jules.” He doesn’t know how else to start. </p><p>“Frank?” He doesn’t respond. “I-? You mean the… the janitor? Or- Fuck, Frank, where-“ </p><p>“Her name was Lisa.” She’s silent on the other end for a minute. She does nothing but breathe, quick and quiet. </p><p>“Are you okay?” He imagines her shifting, her eyes widening, her pretty face twisting up in concern. </p><p>"I- don't know." It’s the same response he’d given her before, but now it sounds automatic. Automaton.<em> Fake. </em> Because he knows he's okay- he's more than okay. "She had a husband. His name was Peter.”</p><p>“Don't say that shit over a public phone.” Her voice devolves, paranoid. “… Do the cops know?"</p><p>"No. Just-" <em> Just you, me, and him. </em>"I'm not on a public phone." </p><p>“Then where the hell are you?” Her voice raises. Frank grimaces, fisting the phone tighter in his grasp. His first instinct is to kick something. She’s inside, just past the double doors he'd seen Danny enter through. He could say it. He could get on his hands and knees and beg, right now- <em> Please, Jules, come and take me home!  </em></p><p>But he doesn't. He can’t. </p><p>“Stop looking for me. I need you to promise me that you’ll stop looking for me. Please? Can you do that?”</p><p>“Can you stop with the self-sacrificial bullshit for a second, Morrison?” She says, exasperated. He likes it when she calls him that, all flustered and annoyed.</p><p>"I don't need your help.” He sounds just as bitter as he feels. He wants to keep feeling like this. He's chasing the high of being close enough to death to touch it, grip it, hold it close. "And I don't want it either." He doesn't want to escape this- he doesn't want to forget. But neither would she. In reality, he knows that this is just his two worlds being immiscible, oil and bloody water. Danny would kill Julie in a heartbeat. Frank knows she would do the same. The choice had been made for him, and now he needs to drive the nail through the coffin and finally lay the Legion to rest. </p><p>Julie goes quiet again. Then, she speaks in a voice that's trying not to cry.</p><p>“Why're you calling me? Why tell me anything?"</p><p>"Because I know you're going to stay being a stubborn bitch, no matter what I do." They’re kindred spirits, even now. Twin flames. He still loves her. Frank doesn’t think he’ll ever stop. "So this is a- a <em> warning.” </em></p><p>“So, what- I never get to see you again?" Her voice shatters like glass. Frank knows she looks pretty when she cries. She’s beautiful when she's angry, too. Anger is what he expected, not tears. He bites his tongue so hard he tastes iron. </p><p>"You might see me on the news." He attempts a bit of humour. He sounds like he's about to cry, too.</p><p>“Let me come with you. I don't care what happens, just don't leave me, Frank-"</p><p>"I can't. <em> I can't- </em>”</p><p>“Says fucking who? You promised you'd get me out of Ormond. You- You promised!"</p><p>"Wasn't it you who told me you'd be gone by the time I got back?" He retorts.</p><p>“I thought you would..." She’s openly sobbing now. He remembers all the wild fantasies they had of wreaking havoc, of bringing life into the lifelessness that was northern Alberta- <em> Together. </em>“Don't you fucking dare leave me again, Frank Morrison." He can hear muttering on the other end, the din quieting into an uneasy murmur. She’s making a scene. </p><p>"I really loved you, Jules,” He says. </p><p>“You… asshole! You-!” She cusses him out, a flurry of colourful language and threats spilling from the phone as two figures exit the diner in quick succession. </p><p>The first is Danny. He has a coffee in each hand, a bounce in his step as he makes his way to the car. The second is Julie. She looks about as tired as he’d expected. She’s wearing one of Joey’s jackets, likely grabbed as she’d left the diner to avoid making more of a scene. Her hair is nearly completely dark now, grown out and faded through the dyed blonde. She walks up to the truck but doesn’t raise her eyes enough to see him staring back at her. If he wanted to, he could raise his hand to the window and give it a knock. She’d look up. He knows she would. Danny scoots past her and opens the driver’s side door. Frank can’t breathe.</p><p><em> "Fuck you.” </em> She hisses into the phone, and Frank can hear the danger in her voice. Her tone is low. Frank can't see her face but he can feel the strength of her words, the way they claw and grab at his ankles, begging, pleading, desperate. "I swear to <em> God, </em>I will find you, and I will gut you like a-" She’s cut off as they pull away. He sees Julie step to the side, her face red with anger. He hangs the phone up as the shape of Julie Kostenko stills and straightens. She turns around, and he can see her brown eyes widen in the rear-view mirror. </p><p>He’ll never forget that look. </p><p>“What a psycho.” Danny says as he steps on the gas. His eyes don’t leave the road. He’s smirking, and Frank doesn't bother curbing his ire.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p>SEATTLE, WASHINGTON</p><p>OCTOBER 23rd, 1997.</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Hangin' round- downtown by myself, and I had so much time to sit and think about myself,</em>” A woman croons. She has a microphone pressed up against her cherry-red lips, and her eyes are heavily lined with black kohl. Her honey-blonde hair curls inward, giving the effect of rippling gold shining bright in the white stage back-light framing her at every angle with white adumbration. She’s beautiful, and evidently not from Seattle. A country twang resonates through each one of her words, sweet and dulcet. She holds a guitar, strumming it gently as she walks closer toward the edge of the stage. </p><p>Frank stands beside Danny at the far corner of the bar, one arm on his hip and a cigarette between his lips. He’s bobbing his head along with the music, eyes gliding over and across the woman’s bare midriff, though his dark stare is occasionally clouded by a puff of thick white. </p><p>The bar is packed to the brim with stoners and drunks. It’s loud and busy and there’s far too much for Frank to focus on. Danny, in contrast, looks eagle-eyed. His nose is curled, the white light from the stage silhouetting his profile. His grey eyes are narrowed and he’s paying far more attention to the crowd than Frank is. </p><p><em> His hair grows fast, </em> he thinks, noting the way it curls around his ears in a short dark shag. His hair isn’t as black as he’d first thought. It’s more of a charcoal brown. Of course, he’d first seen Danny as a blob of black in the driver’s seat after he’d been starving for a week and a half, living outside of truck-stops and a duffle-bag. </p><p>“What?” He asks, taking a drag of his cigarette. “See something you like?” </p><p>“Someone,” Danny replies. He settles a hand on Frank’s hip and the touch is tender. He’s wearing a pair of form-fitting distressed jeans, a t-shirt, a flannel, and a leather jacket that hangs loosely on his frame. All It’s cold in Seattle, but not nearly as cold as Ormond on its worst days. Frank rolls his eyes and grabs Danny’s hand with his own, clutching it with a gentle squeeze before letting him loose.</p><p>“Charming.” He says. A chuffed laugh slips from between Danny’s lips. “And original.” </p><p>“I wasn’t talking about you.” Danny says. He’s trying to pitch his voice over the speakers, and it works, his baritone all-consuming. “Behind you. Mr. Lonely.” </p><p>Frank cranes his neck. He takes a while, but with some guidance from Danny, he spies a young man, his head down low and his black beanie shrugged far back on his head. He looks exhausted- his eyes are bleary and lined with a thick set of dark circles. He sits alone across the smoke-filled bar, sipping at his beer and staring at the woman as she nears the middle of her set. Frank steps out of Danny’s hold, settling a hand atop his shoulder before pushing away, giving him a pat on the back as he walks toward the stranger. Danny fades into the background, slipping through the crowd like a shadow.</p><p>Frank promptly changes his mark. </p><p>Rather than catch the attention of the lone man, he instead parks himself beside a handsome, stocky brunette. They exchange a look as Frank puts his cigarette out on an ashtray near his elbow. The smoke dissipates along with a floating orange spark and the scent of chalky tobacco. </p><p>“Hey.” </p><p>“Hi.” Frank replies, candid and smiling and fake. “Can I buy you a drink?” He waits for the man’s knee-jerk reaction. He’s used to looks of disgust and occasionally disinterest. He receives neither.</p><p>“If you want to.” The man says, a small smile playing at his lips. He’s attractive, with cropped hair and kind green eyes that gleam a dull jade in the low light.</p><p>“You from around here?” Frank asks as he raises two fingers into the air, calling the bartender over to order the man another beer. He gets one for himself, too, but he doesn’t drink it. He waits for the man to take a sip from his, and then follows suit. </p><p>“Nah.” The man says, his shoulders relaxing as he leans closer toward the bar. “What, is it that obvious?”</p><p>"A little," Franks says, and he’s lying by the skin of his teeth as faux-interest bleeds into his words. Everyone has a story to tell, and this mystery man isn’t exempt, but it isn’t as if he cares all that much. Stories are Danny’s territory. </p><p>“You’d be right. I’m from Michigan.”</p><p>“Are people from Michigan anything like people from Seattle?” He asks. The man turns to face Frank completely.</p><p>"I wouldn't know. <em>You</em> from around here?" </p><p>“Mm, no. Further up north.” He replies, which isn’t a lie. He tries to ease back into a different line of questioning. “You know, you look like you have a story to tell.” </p><p>“Do I now?” </p><p>"Oh, sure," Frank says, before pressing further. "You travelling for work or something?"</p><p>“Nope. I’m kinda… floating on the wind, y’know? Going wherever the tides take me.” Frank nods as if he understands. In a way, he does. He turns around in his seat and reclines against the bar’s edge. “Are you waiting on anyone?”</p><p>“I haven’t decided yet.”<em> Reel him in. </em></p><p>“Well, how about we get a couple more shots and call it a date?” Bold. He likes that. Maybe he can be even bolder. “Name’s Harry.”</p><p>“How about instead of that, <em> Harry- </em> ” Frank starts. He finishes his beer with a pointed swig. “-We <em> don't </em> get to know each other, and you just come back to my motel room?” He watches as the man’s face quickly flushes red before settling back into a pale matte over the edge of his glass.</p><p>An hour of back-and-forth flirting later and Frank’s got Harry wrapped around his little finger.</p><hr/><p>The radio drones through the plateau of Harry’s Buick and into the bottoms of Frank’s high tops, heavy bass threatening to break the speakers. His lips are pursed. </p><p>Danny sits beside him in the driver’s seat, casually belting himself as Frank cranks the volume up. The entire parking lot erupts with a thrumming beat. Muffled whines and the sound of feet thumping up against a closed trunk door are drowned out by the music. Frank begins to hum, cheerily, as Danny’s hand drops down to his leg. He keeps it there, stroking the inner flank of his thigh with his thumb even as they pull out and head toward the highway.</p><p>‘Frank’ has to take a back seat for now. He’s played his part- gone from the <em> ingenue </em> to a coveted <em> homme fatale. </em>He’s crawled his way through the hallowed world of broken homes, waded through rivers of anodyne painkillers and greasy spoons, sucked serial killer cock and somehow came out of the devil’s asshole with a debatable amount of sanity.</p><p>“Well, fuck.” Frank- <em> Harry?- </em> says, his voice just loud enough to break through Nirvana’s <em> Stay Away. </em> He leans back in his seat, winding down the window only a thumbs-width so the early autumn drizzle can’t make its way inside the heated car. He takes his Zippo out of his jacket pocket and lights a cigarette with a silent flick of his wrist, feeling his lungs fill and itch and swell with comforting heat. <em> "Harry. </em> That’s a shit name.” Danny looks far different than he did inside the bar. His features are calm- his lips are straight as a line and he has yet to crack a smile- but his eyes are alight with what can only be described as pure, unadulterated elation. A manic pastiche of joy and self-serving pride.</p><p>“Mm. You’ll learn to make do with what you're given.”</p><p>"Says you. Jed isn't too bad." He changes the channel, cringing when another thump resounds from the back of the Buick. He's getting sick of grunge, but that doesn't mean he wants to listen to ABBA or, God forbid,<em> Cyndi Lauper. </em> “Bad when it's short for <em> Jedidiah, </em> maybe. Like you're Amish or some shit.” Danny snorts, shaking his head.</p><p>“Just Jed.” He gives Frank’s thigh a squeeze. “You have a better idea?” He thinks for a moment, arms crossed over his chest. </p><p>"How does Kurt sound?" Another thump from the back-seat. Frank wants to get out and give  the trunk a kick. </p><p>“You are <em> not </em> going by Kurt.” </p><p>"What?" They drive through a puddle, skimming water across the sides of the Buick in an impromptu car-wash. "I don't look like a Kurt?"</p><p>“Not in the slightest.” Frank sighs and takes another drag of his cigarette. “How about… Noah?” Danny suggests after a long pause. Frank gives him a look, furrowing his brows. <em> Noah </em>. He’ll think about it. </p><p>He looks out toward rainy midnight Seattle as it flies by in a whirlwind, skyscrapers dotted with tiny yellow lights flashing as they pass. </p><p>“You'll still call me Frank, right?"</p><p>“What? Worried you wont be my Frankie anymore?" Frank doesn’t blush, but he feels his cheeks heat up. </p><p>"Never said that." </p><p>“It was implied.” Frank grunts.</p><p>“You know, I never actually asked you to name me.” </p><p>“You asked me to name you the moment you suggested <em> Kurt." </em></p><p>Frank sighs as Danny begins to lecture him. He says something about Frank’s ‘ego’ and his brain clicks off. In his boredom, he pops the glove compartment open to find a small collection of cassette tapes. Each one is labelled and organized, though the handwriting is very poor.</p><p>Frank picks one at random. His finger settles on a red cassette, chipped and dented. <em> 'FOR HARRY' </em>is written across the side in a slightly neater scrawl than those that surround it. Danny glances over, lifting his thumb off the wheel pointedly. </p><p>"Maybe Harry's into grunge. There’s another blessing for you." Frank shrugs. It’s possible- he’s bad good luck so far. Richard Young’s music taste wasn’t exactly shit, and, hell, maybe Harry’s is an improvement. He fiddles with the radio again, changing the output and loading the mix tape into the player. </p><p>A melodic introduction plays while Frank zeroes in on Danny’s eyes through the driver’s side mirror. The world vignettes silently, settling on a Polaroid picture laid out proudly on the dashboard.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I see the crystal raindrops fall,  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> And the beauty of it all, </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Is when the sun comes shining through-  </em>
</p><p>*</p><p>A year can seem like an eternity if you hate your life enough, and Julie Kostenko has been riding the angst train since the day she turned thirteen. </p><p>She peers out a stranger’s bedroom window with a blank expression, her emotions locked away in her mind rather than splayed across her sleeve. Red meets pale pink in a way more reminiscent of an open wound than a sunrise, and suburban Ormond slowly comes to life around her, chirping with early-morning birdsong and swaying telephone wires. A year ago, the blood that stuck to Julie like a second skin made her feel like a Queen. </p><p>Actually, no. Screw all that royalty motif bullshit. Frank fancied himself a King, but when Julie killed a man, she felt like <em> God. </em>It filled her with a rapture so unearthly and unprecedented that, for a moment, she thought she’d been the one they’d stuck through with four knives the size of her upper arm. She remembers that night in enough detail that the still nameless janitor visits her dreams as if he’d died the day prior. Not in the traditional sense; she isn’t plagued with grief, nor does she often find herself tossing and turning in the middle of the night, sweaty and fussy and ruddy in the face. Instead, she tries her best to relive it.</p><p>
  <em> He looks down, and even though she can’t see his face, she can see the blankness in his eyes through the slits of his mask. His irises are flat and torpid. Her own gaze draws down to the knife he holds close to his chest while the cries from the janitor fade off into a cacophony of despairing moans.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>  He offers her the blade and her heart flutters. </em>
</p><p>She looks down at the knife in her hands and thinks about a bloated corpse while a fresh one lay beside her. Torn open from gut to grin, its guts and viscera lay limp, splayed out across her bedsheets in a slurry of red. </p><p>The corpse was once forty-year-old Emelia Craige, married thrice, divorced twice. She’d thrashed underneath Julie’s hands as she set upon her with one of Frank’s old hunting knives. She’s nearly unidentifiable, her face smattered with a splash of dark crimson that drips into her dyed blonde hair. She’s been turned into a mockery of herself; grotesque and cumbersome to behold. Julie doesn’t plan on burying her like she’d done the janitor. She intends to leave her out for her husband to find. She intends to drive hate into his heart. Julie turns to look in Emelia’s mirror and is met with a smiling papier mâché mask. The blood that sticks to her hands and her flannel and her décolletage is warm.</p><p>“The<em> Ghostface. </em>What Clive Barker character did you lift that from?” She attempts to sound sardonic, but it comes out like a bitter laugh. She lifts her knife and her hand doesn’t shake. The blade glints near her eye with a deep red glaze. She takes a step closer to the mirror, lifting her mask and mounting it atop her head. She looks herself in the eyes and cants her head, inky black spilling across her shoulder. </p><p>She doesn’t need to be part of the Legion. She just needs to be <em> Julie. </em></p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>julie kostenko will have her revenge on seattle.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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